Those With Courage
by It'sWorthAShot
Summary: Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king… "…Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, you wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange." DISCONTINUED
1. Chapter 1: Look Alive

**A/N: Hiya guys, this is my first ever fanfiction, so veteran advice is most definitely appreciated. =)**

 **Also, one of the main OCs in this is a French-American girl, and I would like to make it clear that I AM NOT FRENCH. I've been learning it at school for the last five years, but I'm not fluent in any sense of the word, so apologies in advance for mistakes. Not to mention, a lot of the French phrases will be swearing (since Luka generally only reverts to French when she's emotional), which we haven't exactly covered in class. ;) So if anyone who actually DOES speak French could point any mistakes out to me, I would be very grateful.**

 **On a similar note, both OCs in this fanfiction come from New Orleans, Louisiana, a city which my only experience of comes from X-men, google images, and Wikipedia. So, it will probably not resemble the actual place at all. Sorry about that.**

 **Warnings: mild violence, frequent swearing, and dubious French XD**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

 _"…_ _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, you wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

-PROLOGUE-

The girl in the mirror tilts her head from side to side, absently admiring the way the pale morning light reflects off her cheekbones. She doesn't care for vanity, but abstractly, the fading of light into shadow makes a curious image.

 _Hmmm… that's an idea. I could draw that, I think._

Long feathery blonde hair, clear hazel eyes and a serene smile – ( _a flash of enchanting gold, an illusion) -_ that makes Angela look closer to seventeen or eighteen than the twenty-one years she's lived – a peaceful picture, so different from the gaunt cheeks and swollen red eyes that looked back at her just a few weeks earlier.

Since the funeral, she's felt different… lighter, in a pale sort of way, like a gentle breeze on a Sunday morning. She's made her peace with her mother's passing, and now she just wants to find some… stability.

She stands, intending to find her sketch pad. As she crosses the room, her eyes pass over the mirror again, briefly.

 _(A ring,_ the _Ring, come closer come closer)_

Angela blinks for a moment, then shakes her head. It's just her imagination.

 **Chapter 1: Look Alive**

-Luka-

Luka barges in the small apartment with a cacophony of sound, shamelessly dropping the spare key she'd pocketed the day before on the kitchen bench and throwing herself over the back of the couch to flop next to her friend.

"Wotcha doin', _chérie_?"

"Sketching," comes the quiet reply, Angela barely glancing up from the drawing that is just beginning to take shape on her page.

Luka peers over her shoulder at the page. "Dat you?"

"Yes," she says dreamily. "I wanted to draw the light in the mirror."

Luka, having been witness to several similar statements since Mrs Webber's death, makes no comment, but her easy grin becomes a little forced.

"Well," she says after a moment, "how 'bout yo' put de sketching away an' we go see some _real_ ligh', _mon amie?_ Dere's a new park down by _Le Loup_ dat I wanna check out. Better den wastin' away in 'ere."

"I'm not wasting away," Angela protests, but the words lack their old fierceness. The girl Luka knows would've done one of two things: swatted her over the head with her sketch pad, or lunged for the door with a cheeky _last one there does the dishes!_

Luka stands anyway, turning away and stretching to hide the way she grits her teeth in frustration.

She wants to punch something. Wants to scream, to demand that the powers that be give her friend back or she'll-

Instead, she snatches the sketch pad from Angela's grip and holds it out of reach with a practised movement.

"Prove it," she challenges with a smirk. "Las' one dere takes de bins out!"

She dodges her friend's reaching arms and sprints for the door.

…

Luka had planned to win, but at the last second she slows her steps a fraction and lets Angela reach the park first.

(Angela's lost enough already, she thinks.)

One look at her friend's expression of radiant triumph tells her she's made the right choice. Flushed, with her long blonde hair stuck to her neck with sweat, Angela looks more alive than Luka has seen her in weeks- _months_ , even. She feels a flood of relief, so jagged and powerful it leaves her gasping for breath, though it's easy enough to disguise as exhilaration from the race.

Angela laughs as she sticks her nose up in mock superiority. "That proof enough for you, Baudouin?"

Luka flaps a negligent hand at her. " _Ouais, ouais_. Rub it in, why don't ya?" She grumbles a bit under her breath to complete the act, but Angela's attention is already elsewhere.

She's off, flitting around the playground like a butterfly in human form, briefly caressing metal supports and railings as she passes like she always does. Angela has been fascinated by reflections of all kinds for as long as Luka has known her.

Only in recent times has this fascination begun to border on obsession.

But at least she's outside instead of cooped up in her apartment with that damned sketch book, Luka allows. She takes the opportunity to discretely tuck it into her jacket's hidden inner pocket; the phrase _out of sight, out of mind_ seems appropriate.

…

When Angela's short burst of liveliness runs out, she joins Luka at the top of the climbing web. The darker haired girl is hanging by her flexed feet from the edge of the platform, swinging gently back and forth with the breeze. As Angela perches cautiously on the edge, she catches one of the wires and manoeuvres herself back up with an effortless grace that betrays the strength in her lanky form.

"Feel better now, Ange _?_ "

Angela makes a quiet affirmative noise in the back of her throat and rests her head on Luka's shoulder.

" _Bon_."

…

Angela is almost child-like in her fatigue, Luka thinks fondly as she manhandles the other girl back to her apartment. One of her arms is wrapped Angela's waist, and the other keeps a gentle yet firm hold on her forearm, which is draped carelessly over Luka's shoulder.

Though the smaller girl is just about asleep on her feet, the people they pass on the street pay them no attention; it's a familiar sight. The stares they do get are admiring ones. Though in looks they're about as different as night and day – fair skin and fly-away blond hair to copper tan and dark brown waves with three rebellious braids down one side – neither of them are lacking in the looks department, as the posse of young men across the street make clear.

Luka smirks and blows them a mocking kiss behind Angela's back.

Others wolf-whistle for another reason entirely. But their leers and knowing looks are misplaced. She and Angela are closer than most, it's true. What the onlookers don't understand is that there are some things that break people, and there are some people that break – but Luka will never break, not while she has Angela.

Their co-dependence has nothing to do with love, at least not of the romantic kind. It's about support, about having each other's back and being there on the days when the world seems too cold and heartless to bear alone.

It's them fighting for their sanity; Luka-and-Angela back to back against the world.

-Angela-

 _The light glinting off the storefronts is almost… hypnotising._

She leans against the wall, waiting for Luka to finish paying for the groceries.

She's knows Luka's worried for her.

 _There's a flash of gold- a brilliant shining light._

(Subconsciously, some part of her wonders if her friend might be right.)

 _The gold is so… pretty…_

Her feet move without permission, stepping out onto the road.

 _She just wants to see it… a little… closer…_

"ANGELA, WATCH OUT!"

Car tires screech, and a hand closes around the back of Angela's collar, yanking her back on to the side walk – just in time. The car blurs past an inch away, wing mirrors just clipping her arm as she jolts back to reality with the knowledge that she'd been **_this close_** to **_dying_**.

 _Dying_ , right here and now, on the cold concrete of a New Orleans street.

 _"_ _Saint putain dieu!"_ Luka snarls, chest heaving against Angela's back. "Da hell were yo' thinkin'?!"

"I-I," she stutters, unable to control the way her hands tremble and her eyes tear up. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Yo' almost _died!"_

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-"

"-wasn't thinking?" Luka finishes angrily. "Was too busy watchin' the fuckin' _reflection?!_ Damnit, Ange, yo' can't keep doin' dis! You-"

"I know!" Angela interrupts with a frustrated cry. She spins to face Luka, heedless of the crowd that is gathering on the sidelines. "I know, alright! I can't help it!"

Both girls fall silent, glaring at each other.

Finally, Luka looks away, hissing through her teeth.

For a moment, Angela thinks Luka's going to leave, going to storm off in a huff – then the next second she's got a face full of dark hair, and Luka's strong arms are nearly strangling her in desperate fear.

"Don' yo' ever scare me like tha' again, yo' crazy fool," she mumbles, face buried in Angela's neck.

"Sorry," Angela repeats dully, but she's not thinking of her recent close shave. This time she's apologising in advance.

-Luka-

The trip back to Angela's apartment is silent, each girl lost in her own thoughts. Luka's mind is buzzing, conjuring up wild conspiracy theories and countless highly implausible explanations for Angela's dangerous preoccupation with all things reflective, shiny, or gold.

Up until now, she's been willing to ignore it, to push back the little voice of caution in the back of her mind that tries to tell her that something is very, very _wrong_ with her friend. But Angela had almost _died_ today; she can't justify turning a blind eye any longer.

Something _has_ to be done about this. The question is, what?

Luka feels like she floundering, way out of her depth. She wants to help Angela, but – for god's sake, she's a _cage fighter,_ not a fucking _shrink._ What the hell can _she_ do?

She pushes the sense of helplessness from her mind as Angela unlocks the front door and disappears inside without a word. Luka stares after her retreating back for a second, and sighs.

"Ye're trouble, yo' know dat?" Shaking her head ruefully, she follows her friend inside.

The lounge room/kitchen area is both empty and stiflingly hot when Luka steps into it. She cracks open the windows to let in some fresh air, then raids the fridge for two unopened bottles of water.

"Ange, yo' wan' some water, _chérie_?" she calls down the short hallway, but receives no answer.

"Ange?" she tries again.

Frowning, she drops the grocery bag on the bench and pokes her head into her friend's room. "If dis's abou' before, I'm n- Ange?" She pauses.

Angela is standing with her back to the door, facing the full length mirror on the opposite wall. She's frozen still, arms hanging limply at her sides. There's no sign of distress, but something about the picture makes Luka uneasy.

"Angela?" She repeats cautiously, but her friend doesn't react. Not even a twitch.

The curl of dread in her stomach intensifies.

"Ange, _chérie_ , wha's wrong?" She puts the bottles down and takes a step forward, only to freeze when Angela lurches forward suddenly and collapses to her knees.

"Angela!" She darts forward and kneels next to her friend, noting the way her skin in pale and covered in a light sheen of sweat. Her breath seems to be coming in rapid gasps.

Luka checks her forehead-

" _Merde!"_ She pulls her hand away sharply, palm tingling where it had come into contact with Angela's burning skin. "Wha' de hell?!"

Fevers aren't exactly uncommon in a city as humid as New Orleans, where the very air breeds bacteria, but Luka's never seen one as bad as this. She's just debating phoning the hospital when Angela suddenly lurches back to her feet and staggers away.

 _No,_ Luka realises. _Not away,_ _ **towards**_ _the_ _ **mirror.**_

It dawns on her that leaving Angela in the same room as a large reflective surface may not be a good idea, given the almost-consequences of her most recent episode. With this in mind, she hastens forward and hooks her arms under her friend's shoulders and starts to haul her back to the door.

To her shock, Angela reacts violently, thrashing and twisting and straining to escape Luka's hold. Only her experience as a semi-professional fighter allows her to keep her grip, catching Angela's wrists in a tight grasp and forcing her arms up behind her back.

She feels a flash of guilt when Angela lets out a pained yelp, but it's swiftly driven from her mind when Angela tears herself free of Luka's arms – nearly dislocating her shoulders in the process – and tackles her to the ground.

 _"_ Wha _\- putain!"_

Luka lands heavily on her back, dodges the first swipe, and blocks the second. On the third strike, she manages to regain her hold on Angela's wrists, and uses it to flip them over so she can sit up and lock Angela's legs to the floor with her knees and ankles. Bodily restrained, her friend can only wreathe, struggling silently.

"Angela!" she hisses, muscles burning from the effort. "De fuck are yo' doin'? Snap outta it!"

In reply, Angela twists around and _bites_ her.

"Aïe!" Luka yelps in surprise, accidentally loosening her grip on her friend's wrists. In an instant, Angela gains the upper hand and – _fuuuuuck! –_ she'd _known_ she'd one day regret teaching her how to punch a man unconscious.

She lies on the floor for a few seconds, dazed, with a high pitched ringing in her ears. Through blurry vision, Luka sees Angela stagger to her feet and pitch unstably towards- towards that _goddamn mirror._

 _She should… get up. Do something…_

Painfully, she crawls upright, clutching at the dresser for support when the world shivers and distorts. She brings a hand to her head and it comes away bloody.

For a few shaky moments, she just stares at her palm blankly, unable to understand how Angela – _sweet, innocent, gentle_ _ **Angela**_ **–** could possibly have hurt her.

But that Angela is nowhere to be found right now. Luka's possible concussion has nothing to do with the fact that she hardly recognises the girl who even now is standing stock still before the floor length mirror across the room. She has the same face, the same hair, the same delicate, pale form… but it's not Angela.

 _It's not._

She clings to this thought with every inch of her tattered soul… as she launches straight at the monster in her best friend's body and tackles her to the floor.

Or at least, that's where she _intends_ for them to fall- where they _should_ have fallen, had the world retained its usual logic in that moment.

Instead, they fall _through the mirror._

 **A/N:** ** _Cherie_** **is the French feminine form of** ** _cher,_** **meaning 'dear' or a similar term of endearment. Luka uses it as something like 'honey.' As for** ** _merde_** **and** ** _putain…_** **well, they're swear words. You can look them up yourself if you want to know what they are.**

 **Also, the nickname 'Ange' is a play on Angela's name.** ** _Ange_** **is French for 'angel,' which is both a term of endearment and another shortened version of 'Angela.'**


	2. Chapter 2: Dear Sanity

**A/N: How am I doing so far? Btw, for most of this chapter, the majority of Luka's speech will be in French only, due to… a reason you will discover as you read. So yeah. Sorry in advance.**

 **Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

 **Chapter 2: Dear Sanity**

 _Ground. Ow._

This is the first thought that goes through Luka's mind upon waking.

Her head is throbbing, her limbs feel like dead-weights, and there is a suspiciously Angela-shaped lump squashing her left arm.

She tugs it free and rolls over with a groan.

"Urrgh… _mon Dieu…"_

Her eyes crack open, blinking lazily against the annoyingly bright lights. The roof seems oddly far away for some reason. It's blue though, so Luka is willing to forgive and forget.

" _Bleu, bleu, bleu,"_ she singsongs under her breath, giggling uncontrollably, though she can't quite work out what's so funny. _**(Blue, blue, blue…)**_

" _Plafond bleu, yeux bleus, ciel bleu-"_ _ **(Blue roof, blue eyes, blue sky-)**_

 _EH?_

Suddenly, Luka shoots up like a shot.

" _Quoi_ -?!" _**(What-?!)**_

She stumbles to her feet and spins in a circle, nearly tripping over her own feet as black spots blur at the edge of vision.

Because, Luka's _fairly_ sure the last thing remembers is fighting Angela at her apartment, and- and _this…_ this is _not_ the apartment, or the street, or any part of New Orleans that Luka recognises.

It's a- well… it _looks_ like a grass plain in the middle of nowhere.

Luka groans and cradles her throbbing head in her hands.

 _Dear sanity,_ her inner voice begins in a posh British accent that sounds remarkably similar to her old English teacher. _While I'm glad to hear you are enjoying your holiday, I'm afraid Miss Baudouin is in urgent need of your assistance. If you could please return ASAP, we at Baudouin's Brain Brigade would be eternally grateful._

She scrubs at her eyes, but the image doesn't even waver.

Pinches herself (it hurts).

Smacks herself (it hurts even more).

She stops just short of punching herself – her head _already_ hurts… which actually, in hindsight, should've been a good enough indication that this was real.

Which begs the question of _how?_

Has someone kidnapped them? _(Why?_ _ **Who?**_ _)_

Did they sleepwalk? _(To the middle of nowhere?_ _ **Together?**_ _)_

Spontaneously learnt to teleport? _(Only slightly less likely than the first option…)_

Finally gone off the deep end? _(…Ah. Let's just… forget I thought of that one,_ ouais? _)_

After a few more seconds of dizzying spinning Luka gives up and throws herself down on the ground next to her prone friend.

"Angeeeee…" she whines pitifully, shaking Angela's shoulder. "Ange, Angela, _réveille-toooii._ I'm goin' maaad…When she doesn't respond, Luka pokes her cheek. "Come 'n, wake up a'ready. Dis i'n't funny Ange."

Still nothing. Luka's petulant expression melts into a frown. "Angela?" She checks her pulse and breathing, which are normal as far as she can tell. Her fever from earlier is almost gone. "Ange, _chérie_ , wake up. _Allez_ , yo' need t' wake up... _Angela!_ "

Angela remains stubbornly unresponsive. Luka feels the anxiety begin to rise in her throat, clogging her airways. She grits her teeth, but lets it come; the adrenaline is useful, it clears away the lingering cobwebs in her mind and vision.

Carefully, she tilts her friend's head to one side, then the other, searching for any sign of a gash or swelling that might indicate a head wound, but finds nothing. Aside from the fact that she _won't wake up_ , it _looks_ like she's just taking a nap.

Then, of course, she has to take into account that whatever's wrong with Angela might not be a physical injury at all. Just what the _hell_ had happened to Angela back at her apartment? Was it schizophrenia? Some kind of mental break?

And _fuck-_ why hadn't she thought to do something earlier? She'd _known_ something was wrong, she'd seen the signs. If she hadn't been so determined to let Angela have her space and work it out on her own, hadn't fucking _abandoned_ her when Angela needed her most-!

"Ahh, _merde._ " Luka runs a hand through her hair and tangles it there, tugging to ward off the sudden guilty ache in her chest. What was it Angela always said?

 _No use crying over spilt milk, Lu. Just get some tissues and clean it up before it makes an even bigger mess…crétin._ _ **(…moron)**_

It's good advice…

…and totally useless in this situation.

With no one to talk to and nothing to distract her from her friend's plight, the silence quickly gets to Luka. At some point she gets up and starts to pace out a restless path in the dry soil, periodically halting to jab out a few punches or a kick at some invisible opponent. Eventually, she abandons this too in order to survey their surroundings properly for the first time.

It really is the middle of nowhere, it seems. On three sides, for as far as the eye can see, there is nothing save an endless sea of grass, broken only by the occasionally boulder or two. In the fourth direction, a range of snow-covered mountains loom in the distance. There's not a tree in sight. And more importantly, there's also no sign of civilisation.

Luka pats down her pockets, and – " _Yes!"_ – her phone is still there. Hopefully, she checks for reception, only to feel her heart drop a second later. Nothing.

The reality of their situation begins to set in: they're lost in the middle of god-forsaken nowhere, with no food, no water, no means of contacting anyone, no method of transport save their own feet – and to top it all off, Angela looks no closer to waking than she had an hour ago.

"We…" she informs her friend seriously, "…'re totally fucked.

She takes Angela's silence as emphatic agreement.

…

In the manner of all things unwanted and entirely unhelpful, night arrives swiftly, bringing with it a chilling wind that whistles and howls through the grass like distant wolves.

"Well, a' leas' dere not _real_ wolves," Luka tells herself optimistically.

(And the universe says, _JINX.)_

…

The wolves have them almost completely surrounded by the time Luka realises they're there. She freezes automatically, pinned under four, five, _six_ hungry gazes. Some part of her mind protests frantically – _wolves don't usually attack humans, do they?_ And, _wolves aren't_ _ **supposed**_ _to be this_ _ **big**_ _, like what the hell?!_

Then her fighter's instinct kicks in.

There's a pocket knife in her boot, for… sticky situations (this definitely qualifies). She crouches, deliberately holding the lead wolf's gaze, and retrieves it; looking away means a submission, fear. Then she stands, takes a slow, deep breath, and takes stock of the situation.

There are six wolves. No cover. Low visibility. Relatively flat ground. Angela is still unconscious; a liability.

As far as confrontations go, the odds are pretty terrible. But there's no way she can escape now, not with Angela a dead weight and the wolves surrounding them on three sides. Stubbornly, she sets her jaw and flicks the knife open.

Fighting is her _thing._ She can wipe their asses, no sweat.

(Never mind the fact that she's never _seen_ a wolf in her life, let alone _fought_ one.)

The wolves evidently have some concept of strategy, because when the first attack comes it's from behind. Luka sees a blur of movement in the corner of her eye, and then the creature is bearing down on her, 300 pounds worth of muscle and claws and fangs. She doesn't bother with theatrics – just lunges over Angela and lets the wolf run itself onto her knife. The blade is barely two and a half inches, but it's good metal and it pierces through the wolf's eyeball to its brain with only momentary resistance.

"YAH!"

She plants one booted foot on its jaw and tugs the knife out, kicking the squealing beast away in the same movement.

The second wolf is disposed of in much the same manner, but then it starts to get a little tricky. Two wolves attack simultaneously, one from the front and one from the side. Despite every instinct in her body screaming at her to _move,_ Luka stands her ground, all too aware of Angela lying defenceless behind her. She waits until they're almost upon her, then drops suddenly and knocks one's front legs out from under it with a sweep kick – feels the bones bend and _break_ – then twists around to duck under the other wolf's gaping maw and tears a slit through its throat with her blade.

Warm blood splatters her arm and face.

Skin and sinew is tougher than an eye, though, and the angle does the knife no favours. Her only warning is an almost unnoticed _snap_ – and then the little pocket knife snaps in two at the handle, the blade still embedded in the unfortunate wolf's neck.

" _Putain!"_

But she's not ready to curl up and die just yet. Luka shoves the dying beast away and stands, regains her footing, and raises her fists grimly, running through a list of potential targets in her mind.

 _Windpipe._

 _Eyes._

 _Nose._

 _Underside of jaw._

 _Gut._

 _Front legs._

 _Base of skull._

 _Temple._

 _Spine._

(For all that they have four legs, large incisors and fur, wolves aren't all that different from humans, weakness-wise.)

The final pair of wolves hang back warily, growling low in their throats.

Luka, body almost shivering with adrenaline and primal bloodlust, bares her teeth and growls back.

In hindsight, it's a terrible idea. Apparently, she'd just uttered some unforgivable insult in wolf language, because the wolves attack instantly. Her range of movement is already restricted, but with one at twelve o'clock and the other at seven, there's no way she can get out of the line of attack without exposing Angela to danger.

So, once again, she holds her ground.

The first wolf, a relatively small one compared to the rest of its pack but still easily waist height on Luka, takes a solid roundhouse to the face. Against a human opponent, the kick would have had them out like a light, probably with a broken jaw to boot – but somehow Luka gets the feeling that it had hurt her foot more than it had hurt the wolf.

Before she has time to make a second attempt, the wolf at seven barrels into her. Luckily, her previous attack had taken her somewhat out of the line of its charge, so its teeth only graze her hip instead of tearing a chunk out of her, but nevertheless she is sent crashing to the ground.

Her hands go up automatically, and she manages to block a clawed foot at the price of three deep lacerations to her forearm.

" _Ah!_ '

Her short cry melts into a litany of swear words in a mixture of English, French, and Portuguese, with a handful of Japanese expletives thrown in for emphasis, because _hell's bells!_ It fucking _hurts!_

She lashes out on instinct, driving the steel cap of her boot into the wolf's gut, and it backs off with a pained yelp. Panting, she scrambles to her feet and backs away, cradling her arm even as blood stains her jacket red.

There's a rock in her uninjured hand, about the size of a human heart. It makes a satisfying crunch when it collides with the wolf's skull.

Luka whoops triumphantly.

"Tha's righ', don' mess wit' Luka Baudouin you _petit connar-_ fuck!"

The wolf whose legs she'd snapped earlier is not dead in any meaning of the word. Rather, it has been angry, hungry, and lying in wait for her to get close enough to bite.

Its teeth sink deep into her calf and she screams again, an aborted, strangled noise in the back of her throat, and tries to knock it away with her other foot. By lucky chance, her heel makes contact with the wolf's nose, and it releases her leg with a yelp, but not before leaving two weeping punctures in her flesh.

But Luka has learnt her lesson well. This time, when she lunges and grips the wolf's head in her hands and _twists,_ there's a satisfying crunch and it doesn't get up again.

 _Five down, one to go._

Bloody and viciously pleased, she turns her attention to the last surviving wolf, only to feel her heart stop.

The wolf is in mid leap. Time seems to slow as she traces its path in her mind, already foreseeing the way its front legs will land on Angela's chest, caving in her ribs under its weight. Black claws will pierce her skin. Teeth will tear out her soft, unprotected throat.

There's no time to think.

She dives and tackles the wolf to the ground.

Its sharp claws graze her collarbone as they roll, but she finds a grip on its front legs and snaps them mercilessly, relishing in the creature's agonized howl. Its legs are useless then, so it collapses onto her, teeth snapping at her throat, her face.

In response, she stabs her thumbs into its eyes.

Viscous fluid coats her fingers and the wolf screeches shrilly, but she digs in with grim determination, pushing down the bile that tries to rise in her throat.

However, the blood on her hands is slick; the wolf's continued thrashing almost tears it from her grip, bringing it close enough that she can almost taste it's putrid breath on her own tongue. It's close- too close, and Luka is _not_ going to die, _not like this_ , but for all her rage, she's still human, still not _enough-_

And then suddenly, it's over.

The wolf jerks once, then falls still, and then topples to one side, connecting with the earth with a meaty thud.

A figure steps into view, silhouetted in the light of a burning branch. The man – because it _is_ a man – crouches beside her, and rough yet gentle fingers find her pulse.

"She lives!" He announces after a moment, presumably to a companion of his, as Luka is well aware of her continued state of living, thank you very much.

She has half a mind to tell the man this, but… the world is looking a little, _huh_ … funny at the moment… all spinny and spinning…

"I t'ink I 'ave a concussion," she tells him matter of factly, slurring a little. "Do yo' t'ink I 'ave a concussion? M-… m' calf's pun'tured, m' arm 'as lotsa cuts… an' I t'ink I 'ave concussion. _Que…que pense-tu?"_

The man looks bemused. "I think it's quite likely, lady. Hold still, I need to bandage your arm before too much blood is lost."

"Ah." Luka blinks slowly. "Told ya I 'ave a concussion…"

Her arm is quickly taken care of, then her calf. Luka endures it quietly, occasionally piping up to ask the man if he thinks she has a concussion, to which he answers affirmative with infinite patience and Angela-worthy manners.

Angela would like him. Luka tells him so.

"Angela? Is that your companion?"

"Uh huh. Ange's m' frien', see? I gotta… gotta protect 'er…"

"You did well," he assured her. "Your friend is safe. Were you travelling with anyone else? Kin? Your father, mother, brothers?"

Luka makes a small noise of discontent. "Émile's gone… gone, gone... _le feu est venu_ an' I couldn'… couldn' save 'im. Émile, _petit frérot… désolé, je suis désolé…"_ She trails off, eyes drifting closed.

A wrinkled hand settles on her forehead for a moment. "She has a fever."

"And a concussion."

"Will she survive?"

The man sighs. "If she makes it through this night… perhaps. Only time will tell."

 **A/N: Second chapter finished! Yay! It's a bit short though, sorry. Concussed people and fight scenes are not my strong point. ^_^**

 **Translations:**

 _ **Le feu est venu –**_ **the fire came**

 _ **Petit frérot –**_ **little bro**

 _ **Désolé, je suis désolé –**_ **sorry, I'm sorry**

… **You'll find out more about that later. XD**

 **By the way, can anyone guess who the two people at the end were?**


	3. Chapter 3: Much Confusion

THOSE WITH COURAGE

 **A/N: Hey guys, sorry that took so long, my computer caught a virus so I couldn't use it for a few days while it was getting fixed. =( But it's all better now! And to make it up to you, this chapter is a nice long one… ^_^**

 **I'm curious, do you think I need to move the rating up to M? The instructions are kind of vague on exactly is allowed for each level of rating… But the second chapter is probably a good measure of the amount of violence/swearing that will be in future chapters.**

 **Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

 **Chapter 3: Much Confusion**

The next time Luka awakens, it's to the murmuring of voices and the now-familiar throbbing of her head.

She keeps her breathing slow and even, feigning sleep while examining her surroundings through hearing and touch. Inside, her emotions are a jumbled mixture of anger, apprehension and disorientation. This is the second time in less than a day that she's woke somewhere with no clue how she's gotten there… _hopefully,_ it isn't going to become a common occurrence.

She is lying on the ground, clearly. Luka can feel the lumpiness of crushed grass stems straight through whatever thin material is spread between her back and the earth-

HAND.

HAND ON HER HAIR.

It's just a little thing, hardly indicative of malevolent intentions. But there are only three people in the world who are allowed to touch Luka's hair – two of them are dead, and the other, last Luka's seen, is most definitely unconscious.

She tenses, but a small thought stops her.

 _Unless…_

"I know you're awake, Luka," Angela giggles, light fingers sweeping her hair back from her forehead. "Come on, time to get up."

Luka sits up so suddenly their heads nearly crack together. "Angela!"

"Luka!" her friend mimics with a hint of cheekiness. Angela gapes for a second before gathering her wits about her. "Ye're awake!" she exclaims, incredulous and relieved. "Oh, _Dieu merci!_ Wha' de hell 'appened, Ange? Y-"

Angela's hand covers her mouth. " _Parlez en français,"_ she interrupts hurriedly, lowering her voice.

" _Hein?"_ Luka asks, bewilded, but switches to her native language obediently. _"Why?"_

In reply, Angela nods over her shoulder. _"We have company."_

" _What-?"_ She stills. _"…Ah. Okay, who the hell are they?!"_

" _They're… well, they're…_ travellers _,_ " she's says, momentarily switching back to English. _"I think. They're okay. I mean, they made sure you didn't die or anything – that's good, right? The old man is called Gandalf, and the guy with the long hair-"_

" _Blondie?"_

" _No, the other one... with the dark hair."_

" _Yeah?"_

" _His name is Aragorn. They're the ones in charge, I think."_

" _Right. How much have you told them?"_

" _Only my name,"_ Angela says, biting her lip. _"Then I refused to talk until you were awake. Should I have-"_

"Atta girl!"Luka laughs, waving off her worry. _"Alright. What about the rest?"_

Angela shrugs. _"Well, the short one with the frying pan is called Sam, and the one who's eating is called… Pippin, I think. I don't know about the others though. Aragorn said we would talk once you woke up."_

" _Well,"_ she says, making to stand with only a slight wince as the bandages on her arm – and when had _that_ happened? – tug slightly on the healing skin underneath. "I'm awake now. Let's talk."

"Wait!"Angela grabs her wrist to stop her. _"There's something else."_ She pauses hesitantly.

" _What is it?"_ Luka prompts after a few seconds have passed. She looks her up and down, searching for any sign of injury. _"Are you hurt?"_

" _No, it's not that. Luka…I-"_

" _Ange?"_

"… _Last night,"_ she begins haltingly. _"I mean- the stars, they're so…_ different _."_

Luka frowns. _"What do you mean?"_

" _I- Ursa Major and Minor, Draco, Libra… they're all missing, Luka! Even the Southern Cross!"_

" _We can't always see the Cross, Ange, you know that."_

" _But at this time of year, we_ should _be able to! And what about the others?!"_

" _Well… maybe they were under clouds?"_

" _There were no clouds!"_ Angela cries, looking close to tears. _"I don't understand! Where are we, Luka?"_

" _Not Louisiana, obviously,"_ Luka mutters under her breath. Angela's eyes glisten with angry tears.

" _Dammit Luka! How can you be so… so_ blasé _about this! Do you know how_ scared _I was, waking up here with all these people and- and you were just_ lying _there covered in blood and I thought- I thought…"_

" _Hey, hey, calm down. It's okay._ I'm _okay."_ She tangles their fingers together, squeezing reassuringly.

"… _I thought you were dead,"_ Angela finishes in a hoarse whisper. _"I thought you were gone."_

Luka has to swallow a lump in her throat. _Oh, Ange…_

" _Have a little faith, chérie."_ She forces a smile. _"I promised you, didn't I? What did I tell you?"_

"… _That you never break your promises."_

" _That's right."_ She ruffles Angela's hair gently. _"Never. I'll be here for as long as you need me."_

" _So, forever then?"_ Angela half chokes, half laughs.

" _Forever it is."_

"… _How are we going to get home, Luka?"_ Angela asks after a few seconds of sombre silence. She wipes her eyes quickly, but not quick enough to escape Luka's notice.

She sighs and pulls her teary friend into a hug. _"I don't know,"_ she admits quietly, guiding Angela's head to rest on her shoulder. _"I don't know how, just like I don't know where we are, or how we got here, or why… but we'll be okay. We'll find a way home, chérie."_

" _How can you know?"_

" _We'll find a way, Ange. We always have."_

...

-Aragorn-

"Legolas? What are they saying now?"

The elven prince tilts his head to the side, listening intently.

" _Comment le sais-tu?"_ He relays dutifully, the words strange and foreign sounding on his tongue. _"Nous… trouverons un moyen. Nous avons… toujours fait."_

Aragorn shakes his head ruefully. "It is as if they are speaking gibberish. I cannot understand a word. What of you, Gandalf?"

The elderly wizard takes a long draw from his pipe, gazing off into the distance. Finally, he turns to them with a frown that draws deep shadows on his face.

"I have travelled in every corner of this land," he begins slowly, "and learnt many a language in my time… and yet I find I am at loss. Whatever distant land these women call home, it is nowhere I have known."

The hobbits exchange wide-eyed glances while Aragorn mulls over the wizard's words. _How far from home_ _must they be,_ he wonders, _that even one of the immortal Maiar knows them not?_

The answer, he thinks grimly, is _very, very far._

"Well, where're they from then, eh?" Gimli blusters with his usual over-the-top enthusiasm. Aragorn sees that Legolas is about to make a scathing reply, and intervenes before a fight can break out.

"That is a very good question, Gimli. One I would like to know the answer to myself." He stands, putting away his pipe. "And since it seems we shall get nothing from them by listening, perhaps it is time we merely _asked_."

Gandalf guffaws.

Aragorn studiously ignores him.

…

-Luka-

"I see you are awake, miss…?"

"Luka," she offers neutrally, eyeing the man – 'Aragorn', Angela had said his name was – up and down. She'd watched the odd assemblage of men conversing, and although she'd been unable to make out their words, Luka feels reasonably secure in her position. Aside from the very realistic _haven't-showered-in-six-months_ look and the surplus of weapons they're carrying, none of them appear to be particularly malicious people… except, well… she'll reserve her opinion on the grumpy-looking redhead.

And besides, she thinks, remembering the wolves, she can hardly blame them for keeping a blade or two handy. The absence of her own little knife is like a gaping wound in her side, leaving her feeling vulnerable and on edge.

"…Luka," he repeats, as if tasting the sound. "A curious name. Is it common in your homeland?"

One of Luka's eyebrow's goes up. "No' particularly, _non_."

This is not at all the type of questions she's been expecting, it throws her a little. But two can play that game. "'Luka' is traditionally a boy's name, back 'ome," she drawls, smirking. "I suspect _mon père_ was no' entirely sober when 'e filled out m' birt' certificate."

Contrary to her expectations, Aragorn laughs. "I sense there is a story to tell there. But before that, my companions and I have some question for the two of you, if you would."

Luka exchanges a fleeting look with Angela, who hasn't spoken since her mini breakdown. She looks pale – paler than usual, that is – but at Luka's concerned expression she climbs to her feet determinedly.

"We have some questions too, if you don't mind, sir," she says firmly, as impeccably polite as ever.

The man dips his head in acquiescence. "Of course."

"Yo' ready fo' dis, _chérie?"_ She murmurs to Angela in an undertone as she stands and brushes herself off, ignoring the way Aragorn glances between them with thinly veiled curiosity.

Before Angela can answer, however, they halt before the rest of the company. There's a moment of silence where both parties simply stand and stare at each other – or rather, the men wait for them to speak, Angela stands awkwardly, and Luka stares with a gobsmacked expression because she's mostly sure she's not dreaming, and the blonde guy there has _pointy ears._

Like, _what the hell._

"…Yo' 'ave… pointy ears," she says slowly, blinking. "Uh…"

"Legolas is an elf of Mirkwood," Aragorn explains evenly, as if he hasn't just told them his friend was a mythical creature.

"An _elf,"_ Luka and Angela repeat simultaneously in identical tones of disbelief and dismay.

Luka can feel the corner of her mouth twitching up as she struggles to keep a straight face. From the disgruntled expression on the, ahem… _elf's_ face, she's a tad unsuccessful.

 _Of all the people in the world,_ she thinks, and feels like groaning or dropping her head in her hands, _we had to run into the_ one _relatively sane adult who still believes in magical creatures._ She glances at the rest of the group, who don't look at all surprised or sceptical.

… _Or maybe there's more than one…_

"Yes," Aragon says calmly, looking faintly amused. "I suppose from your reactions that there are no elves in your land?"

The two friends look at each other in silence. Angela's entire expression – the bits of it Luka can see at least – screams, 'I'm not telling him.' Luka waves a hand at her in a 'go on' gesture and jerks her head at Aragorn. Angela shakes her head.

 _The nerve._

"Uh… no," she manages, smiling awkwardly. "No elves."

" _No elves!"_ Exclaims one of the midgets, a chubby looking fellow – 'Sam,' she recalls. "Imagine that, Master Frodo!" He nudges the similarly vertically-challenged chap next to him, who looks as if a light breeze could blow him over. 'Frodo' stares at them solemnly, and Luka sees a bewildering mixture of wariness and gentleness in his eyes.

He looks entirely out of place in the current setting, she thinks, like someone's cut him out from him cosy little house somewhere far away where people greet each other with smiles and no-one carries weapons simply because there's no _need_ to, and pasted him onto this rugged wasteland scene. Come to think of it, _all_ of the midgets have that look, save the redhead.

"That sounds like a sad place indeed – no offence intended, misses!" Sam tacks on hurriedly, looking flustered. "I surely know what it's like to be an awful long way from home."

"And that brings us to our first conundrum," the old man – Gandalf – speaks up, peering at them over his walking stick. "Tell me, young ones, from where do you hail? But first, what are your names?"

Luka and Angela exchange another glance, and Luka shrugs. Personally, she hasn't the foggiest what his first question was asking. _'From where do you hail?'_ _The hell?_ Her English is decent, but not _that_ good, and somehow she gets the impression he's not talking about the weather phenomenon.

"I'm Luka," she says instead. "Dis is Angela."

"We're from New Orleans, sir," Angela says, twisting her fingers anxiously (and _oh,_ that's _what it means_ ). "Where is that in relation to here?"

"New Orleans… hmmm…" Gandalf mulls over the words, then shakes his head. "You'll have to forgive me; this old mind is not nearly so sharp as it once was. New Orleans is your… village?"

Luka's mind goes blank.

" _Quoi_? _No._ It's a _city_." The unspoken _duh_ is almost audible.

"A _big_ one," Angela adds emphatically.

"I'm afraid I do not know it then," he sighs, sounding sincerely regretful.

"It's 'n Louisiana," Luka offers, trying to jog his memory. "America. Surely yo' know _America!"_

Her words are met with blank looks and shaken heads all around.

"Ye're joking," she says flatly. "Come, it's _America! How can yo' no' know America?"_

"Perhaps it is another name for a land we know?" A sandy haired man with an intent expression offers.

"I guess," Luka says doubtfully. _Geez_ , these people don't even know _America?_ What kind of a rock have they been living under for the last two and a half centuries?

"Then you could point it out on a map?" Aragorn sits forward, catching on.

"Uh…"

Probably not. She'd dropped out of school at fifteen… and geography has never been her strong point anyway.

"I could," Angela steps in, to her relief.

"Very well." He rummages in a pack at his feet and withdraws a roll of paper, which he spreads on the ground. Angela kneels beside him while Luka stands back, crossing her arms.

"The area we are in now is called Hollin, once known as Eregion." He circles a relatively unmarked area in the centre of the map. "To the East lie Caradhras the Misty Mountains, and beyond them, Lothlorien, realm of the elves."

"Wai' a minute," Luka interrupts triumphantly, thinking she'd caught them out in their lie. "I though' yo' said de elves lived 'n, uh, 'Murky Wood' or somethin'?"

" _Mirkwood,"_ blondie corrects, sounding a bit miffed. "And yes, there is an elven colony there. However, there are four elven cities in Middle Earth; Mirkwood and Lothlorien are two."

"Middle Earth?" Luka and Angela parrot.

"Yo' mean like Iran and Iraq an' all dat?"

"That's the Middle East, Lu," Angela corrects absently. "I'm sorry sir, I don't recognise any of this, not even excluding the names. Do you have any maps that cover a larger area than this?"

Aragorn rubs his chin thoughtfully. "No, I'm afraid not. This map shows the entirety of the known world. Perhaps your home is further East of the Sea of Rhun, then, if you cannot see it on here?"

"The Sea of Rhun?"

He points to what – to Luka - looks like a small star shaped lake on the right-most edge of the page. She does a double take. _That's a_ _ **sea?**_

She stares at the mountains in the backdrop and frowns. Just _how_ big is this place? Assuming – disregarding logic – just for a moment that Aragorn and blondie are telling the truth about these so-called "elven" cities, they'd spoken about them like they were a pretty big thing. Not like some backwater 'city' with a population of 2000 people tops, who somehow have a collective ear mutation and are convinced they're actually elves.

But identity issues or no, civilisation means phone reception, cars, maybe even planes; a way home.

"Dis… Lothlorien," she says slowly, catching the groups attention, "'ow long would it take t' get dere from 'ere? Walkin'?"

The four non-midgets and the redhead exchange loaded glances, while the three sandy haired midgets look clueless. Frodo fiddles nervously with the chain on his neck.

Finally, Aragorn answers. "At this time of year… two and a half weeks, at least. Though it depends on which path you take, of course."

For some reason, it feels like a test.

"So… wha's de fas'es' way?"

"The Pass of Caradhras, I suppose." His voice is carefully neutral.

Luka scowls. "I'm no' blind, _homme_. Dose mountains 're completely snowed under." She scoffs a little. "Do we _look_ like we're prepared fo' a ski trip?"

"To be honest," blondie says, tilting his head to the side in a way that is somehow both insulting and ridiculously graceful, "you do not seem prepared for much of anything. The wilds are no place for children."

"Legolas," Aragorn says warningly.

"Children?" Luka growls. " _Vous ne savez_ _ **rien**_ _de moi, vous petit c-!"_

" _Luka!"_ Angela cries, and shares a moment of unexpected comradery Aragorn, whose expression of exasperation perfectly matches her own.

" _Quoi? Il nous a appelés-!"_

"That is quite enough, young lady." Gandalf's stern tone causes her to subside, however reluctantly.

"Right," Angela agrees, giving Luka a cross look. "We have bigger fish to fry."

The last midget – whose name she still doesn't know and shall therefore dub Midget #4 – speaks up for the first time. "I don't understand… you must have walked here from somewhere. Why can't you just go back the way you came?"

"Tha's a grea' idea," Luka snarks, unable to keep the tension out of her voice, "'cept we didn' _walk._ "

Midget #4 blinks. "Well… how'd you get here then?"

Luka snorts. "Hell if I know."

She frowns. _Except, of course…_

"You must have some idea?" Shield-dude presses.

Luka makes a face. "…Yeah, guess I do," she allows.

"You do?" Angela asks, surprised.

She shrugs. "Yeah… doesn' mean it makes sense though. I mean, _zut –_ if I hadn' seen it wit' m' own two eyes I woulda though' it 'as some kinda joke, ya know? But I can tell yo' if yo' t'ink it'll 'elp."

"Please," Gandalf nods.

"Well… I guess 't starte' wit' the mirror thin', right Ange?"

Angela looks confused. "My… hypnotism problem? What's that got to do with anything?"

She shrugs again. "I'm no' sure, t' be 'onest. Bu' de las' thin' I remember 's fightin' yo' at yer apar'men'-"

"Wait, what?" Her friend sits up straight, looking alarmed. "We were fighting? When did this happen?"

Luka pauses. "…Yo' mean yo' don' remember it? It was jus' yesterday, _chérie_ – righ' after we go' back from de shops-"

"Where I almost got hit by a car! I remember _that!"_

"Merry," Midget #4 whispers loudly, "what's a 'car'?"

"I don't know, Pip. I want to listen, _shhhh!_ "

" _Ouais._ And den we went back to _chez toi-_ " **(your place)**

"-And then I went into my room and… and…" She trails off into a groan. "That bloody mirror was there! Damn it, I should've known…"

"No' your faul', _chérie._ Yo' didn' know."

"This is all very interestin', lassies" the redhead grumbles impatiently. "But what's a bloody mirror got to do with anythin'?"

"Hold yo' horses, _homme._ So, I wen' into yo' room, an' yo' was jus' standin' dere, no' movin' or hearin' me or nothin'. _"_ Luka shook her head. "An' then, yo', I dunno, _collapsed_ or somethin', and yo' 'ad dis crazy hot fever an' I was like ' _merde_ , call de fuckingambulance, she's gonna _die…'"_ **(man, shit)**

"…And then?"

Luka's face turns serious. "Yo' went crazy, _chérie_ ," she says bluntly. "I don' even know… yo' were tryin' t' get t' de mirror, or somethin'… screamin' and fightin' like yo' was possessed. I tried t' stop ya, but… I didn' wanna hurt yo', ya know?"

She grins wryly, unconsciously rubbing the bandages on her head. "Yo' go' me real good in de face, Ange. Told ya I'd teach yo' 'ow t' punch like a pro."

There's a few surprised murmurs among the company, which Luka ignores as she continues to recount the events of the previous day (and how has it only been one day? It feels like an eternity!). Angela is so pale in her guilt that she could pass for a ghost.

"I'm so sorry, Luka…"

Luka waves her off. "Nah, it's nothin', _chérie._ Don' worry 'bout it."

She gathers her thoughts. "So, last thin' I remember is tacklin' yo down… I though' we hit de mirror, bu' now I think 'bout it, I don' think we _did_. Hit it, I mean. I 'as pretty out o' it; no' movin' tha' fast. De impact shouldn't 'ave been enough t' knock m' out…" She trails off and shrugs.

"An' den de next thin' I know, I'm wakin' up in de middle o' nowhere ou' 'ere, an' yo' were ou' like a ligh', no' wakin' up at all… no reception, no food, no water, _nothin_ '… an' no' a fuckin' person in sight, so I don' know where yo' guys were…"

"Freezing our fingers and toes off on Caradhras, most likely," Sam grumbles under his breath, but not so quietly that Luka and Angela can't hear.

"Wait, you actually climbed that mountain? Wearing _that?_ How are you not _dead?_ "

There are a few more grumbles, mostly from the five midgets, who all look varying degrees of disgruntled and disheartened.

"Well, ne'er min' dat," Luka says, attempting to pull the conversation back on topic. She's tired, hungry, and has a headache the size of North America. In other words _, grumpy_. "Wha' is _wrong_ wit' de wolves here? I mean, _merde_ … norma' wolves don' look like dat, _homme_ … no matter wha' country ye're in!" **(shit, man)**

"Wolves? What wolves? Luka, what are you talking about?!"

"Those were no wolves, I'm afraid," Gandalf says wearily. "The creatures you fought are known as wargs, a… darker cousin of the typical wolf. They are extremely vicious, especially when the moon is at its full… and they serve the Dark Lord, as all too many creatures do these days."

Luka blinks at him for a moment, before breaking out into a sudden burst of laughter. She folds over, shoulders shaking with silent mirth.

"Oh, _mon Dieu…_ the 'Dark Lord'? Nice one, _vieil homme,_ yo' almos' had me dere fo' a second! I mean," she flaps a hand at them, stifling her giggles, "de costumes 're grea', really, an' dat map…? _Parfait._ So tell me, who are yo' _really?"_ **(my God, old man, perfect)**

The men bristle instantly.

"THIS IS NO JEST, DAUGHTER OF MEN!" Gandalf thunders, all sign of weariness gone. "Cease your tomfoolery at once! It may have escaped your notice, but these lands are hardly safe! Should any of the fiendish creatures that roam these plains become aware of our presence here, should our quest fail, _all_ of Middle Earth will fall under the shadow of death and terror!"

"You're _mad_ ," Luka hisses, not heeding Angela's frantic signalling to _shut up, now!_

"Ye're all fucking mad! Dere's no such thin' as bloody "dark lords", or werewolves- _wargs_ , whatever yo' wanna call dem! _Or_ elves, fo' dat matter!"

"What do you mean, missy?" Sam protests indignantly. "Of course there are elves! _Legolas_ is one!"

"Dat don' mean anythin' to me, _nain._ " **(Midget)** She shrugs carelessly. "Fo' all I know, I cracked my head on dat mirror an' am currently droolin' away in a hospital bed. It's sure as 'ell more likely den anythin' else I can t'ink of."

"Oh?" Gandalf says innocently, seemingly calm once more. "And what if I could tell you how you came to be here?"

She stills.

"Luka?" Angela pleads, a hint of desperation in her tone.

"…Go on," she says finally, shrewd brown eyes boring into his.

"There is a story, in the southern port of Pelargir," he begins quietly, causing every listener to lean in slightly, "of a young merchant's son – Brenmar, his name was – who once disappeared from all knowledge for three years, only to return with tales of waking in the lonely wilds of Arnor to the North, where he had wandered upon a band of lost children and travelled with them to return them to their clan. This in itself is not remarkable, and seemingly far more likely to be delusions of grandeur and adventure than truth… save for two things."

His gaze slides from Luka to land on Angela, who is biting her knuckles anxiously. "The ship he was loading the day he disappeared was carrying a cargo of specially ordered furniture… desks, dressers, that sort of thing… but mostly, I have heard, _mirrors._ Brenmar claimed upon his return to have tripped and fallen through one such mirror prior to waking in the wilds… though those he told thought him touched in the head."

Gandalf pauses. "That is the first oddity. The second is this: before he passed through the mirror, Brenmar is said to have heard one particular name in his head-"

" _Lorien,"_ Angela murmurs dazedly. "I heard him say 'Lorien.'"

 **A/N: Pheww, finally finished! This chapter took forever – so much dialogue! Eugh…**

 **Anyway, hope you like it. I'm too tired to go back and put in the translations I know I've missed. If you really want to know you can ask in a review or Google Translate it haha ;)**

 **I'm going to sleep now, see ya.**


	4. Chapter 4: The Unfriendly Pond Monster

THOSE WITH COURAGE

 **A/N: Oooh, I'm excited now… getting closer to the fun bit! MOOOORIAAAA!**

…

 **Well, not quite yet. But they get to the door! That has to count for something… ^_^**

 **Btw, sorry about the ridiculous amount of dialogue in the last chapter, hopefully this one will be a little easier to read. =)**

 **Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

 **Last time on TWC:**

"Lorien _," Angela murmurs dazedly. "I heard him say 'Lorien.'"_

 **Chapter 4: The Unfriendly Pond Monster**

"-Lorien," Gandalf finishes, nodding to her. "Yes."

Luka's gaze flickers between him and Angela uneasily.

"Okay… I'll admit dat's… pretty coincidental. But wha' de heck does dis _Lorien_ 'ave t' do wit' _us?_ "

Gandalf appears more thoughtful than anything, which serves to calm Luka's ire a little. "Lorien," he repeats slowly, as if mulling over the word. "It is one of the names given to Lord Irmo, one of the Valar, and master of dreams and visions. If he has truly involved himself in your fate, you can be sure that great things lie ahead of you."

Angela bites her lip nervously, sneaking a glance at Luka, whose face might as well be carved from stone for all the emotion is displays.

"If I am right," Gandalf continues, "– and I usually am – then the two of you were called here for a reason. A very _specific_ reason… one might even call it… a _prophecy_."

The silence following that statement is thick enough to cut with a knife. Luka, for once, has no idea what to say. Because really, what _can_ one say to that?

Logic, naturally, demands that she protest, but there is something in Gandalf's voice, in his face, in the undeniable presence of _power_ in those words that has her swallowing her words.

"A prophecy, Gandalf?" Frodo asks finally, speaking up for the first time. "Are you certain?"

"No," he admits, startling Luka. "But there _is_ one who would be able to tell us without a doubt. Our fellowship travels now to Lothlorien, across the mountains. There dwells Lady Galadriel, wisest and fairest of elves. You will travel with us." His tone brooks no argument – not that Luka is about to protest.

Even if they're delusional, these guys are the ones with the food and the weapons. Maybe if it had been only Luka, she might have taken her chances alone… but she has Angela to think about, and for all her bravado there's always a niggling voice in the back of her mind that reminds her what happened the _last_ time she'd sworn she'd protect someone.

 _(Sometimes Luka wonders if it's all for nothing.)_

"Yeah," she says, uncaring of the resignation and sudden weariness that has entered her voice. "Alrigh'."

…

With the matter seemingly resolved for now, the two misplaced friends secure themselves a rock a little way away from the rest of the group. Angela sits, and Luka gingerly follows suit.

Her body _aches._

She'd hardly noticed it before, head too busy buzzing with alarm and disbelief and _rage_ , but now that the adrenaline is gone, the pain from her injuries makes itself known.

The gash on her forehead – courtesy of Angela – feels tender and bruised under the bandages. Her shins and knuckles, likewise, are nearly black and blue from fending of the wolves ( _wargs,_ whatever). One of the knuckles on her right hand is split, an ugly looking tear that Luka knows from experience will heal as an even uglier scar. She has plenty of those.

 _(Sometimes Luka wonders if she should have chosen another path.)_

Worst is her forearm, though. The three lacerations throb something unholy; whatever numbing agent that had been on it earlier is wearing off rapidly. She can picture in her head the way skin and flesh were shredded by the wolf's claws- and _putain,_ she hopes whoever'd patched her up had put antiseptic on it, those claws had been _black._

At least someone had cleaned the blood off her, though. Even if it looks like they'd cut off her jacket sleeves in the process. There are a few brownish stains on her singlet, splotches here and there. She makes a face.

 _Eugh._

It suddenly occurs to Luka that she'd killed for the first time last night… even if they'd been wolves, and trying to tear chunks out of her at the time. Is she supposed to feel bad about that?

She really can't bring herself to care.

It's odd; that fight seems almost… _surreal_ , remembering it now in the warm sunlight with a gentle breeze ruffling the grass around her legs. She's almost inclined to brush it off as a dream, except for her injuries and the fact that the others had seemed unsurprised when she brought the wolves up earlier.

And that's the problem: this _isn't_ a dream. None of it is. You don't sleep in _dreams_. You don't feel pain in _dreams_. It's too clear, too _vivid._ Every touch, sound, smell… everything is real.

So what are they supposed to do now? Luka's already made up her mind to follow these guys to Lothlorien, regardless of certain differences in opinion. But then what? What happens if they get to the city, and this _Galadriel_ can't help them? What if more wolves come and they don't _make_ it to Lothlorien? What if these guys are madder than she'd realised and there _is_ no Lothlorien? _What if, what if._

"It'll be alright, Lu," Angela says quietly, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

 _(Sometimes Luka wonders what she's done to deserve a friend like Angela.)_

Luka laughs, but it chokes up in her throat and comes out more like a sob. "Hey, that's my line," she jokes weakly.

Angela just looks at her knowingly. "Yeah, but I know you, Luka, always taking on other people's pain, never letting them see your own. But that's okay; I'll look after you anyway."

 _(Sometimes, she decides to stop wondering and just be grateful.)_

...

Aragorn watches the smaller blonde embrace her friend and feels a moment of sympathy. What must it be like, to be lost so far from home with nothing but the clothes upon their backs? True, much of a ranger's life is spent roaming the wilds, never staying in one place for too long… but even they have homes and families to return to when the patrol is over and it's time to rest. These women – no, _girls_ – have nothing.

Thus, compassion makes up most of the reason that Aragorn had not protested when Gandalf announced that they would be accompanying the Fellowship to Lothlorien. The rest is cool logic: the two wanderers have already seen their company, and, thanks to Gandalf, know of the path they intend to take. If – however implausibly – they are revealed to be spies of Sauroman or Sauron himself, by keeping them close, the Fellowship can ensure that word of their passing is not passed back to their enemies, by means of restraining them, or other, more… _unsavoury_ solutions.

It's a coldblooded philosophy, Aragorn knows this. But he'd sworn an oath to Frodo the day the Fellowship had been formed, and he intends to _keep it_ – even if it means staining his hands and his soul red for eternity.

…

In short order, the camp is destroyed and its temporary inhabitants ready themselves to march. Luka and Angela merely stand, having nothing to carry. Luka winces as she puts weight on her battered legs. The blonde frowns.

"Are you sure you're okay to walk?"

She straightens automatically, willing away the pain. "Nah, I'm fine. Jus' a few bruises, _chérie."_

Angela hesitates. "Did I really do that to you?"

"Do wha'?"

"All… that," she gestures broadly at Luka's injuries. "I'm so sorry, I just… I don't really rem-"

"NO!" Luka protests hurriedly, waving her hands frantically. " _Non_ , it wasn' yo', don' worry. Dese be from de wolves, promise."

Angela flings up her hands in frustration. " _What_ wolves? You keep mentioning that-"

"Wai', yo' don' know?" Luka is confused. "But earlier-"

" _No_ , I don't know! Why do you think I keep _asking?_ "

"Oh," she says. "Um."

What follows is possibly the shortest and vaguest description of events possible, in which Luka omits 90% of the detail and skims over the rest. By the end of it, Angela looks only marginally more enlightened and no less annoyed, so Luka swiftly changes the subject.

"SO! I migh' 'ave hurt yo' shoulder, when we were fightin' de other day, when… _yo' know._ Yo' okay?"

Angela gives her a look that promises to wrangle the full story out of her later, but thankfully lets it go for now.

"It's a bit sore, but I'll live, I'm sure. Which is more than I can say for _you_ ," She flicks Luka on the forehead with a mix of exasperation and fondness, "miss w _olf hunter_. Come on, let's go. We don't want to be left behind."

…

The party of eleven heads East at a brisk pace, following the curve of a bubbling little creek which Luka surmises they're using as a water source. Aragorn, who, she soon learns from Sam's grumbling, is appropriately nicknamed 'Strider', leads the way, sometimes with Gandalf, sometimes without, while Blondie brings up the rear.

The two girls fall somewhere in the middle, sticking close to each other and conversing quietly in French, which serves to create an intangible space bubble between them and the men. Much to Luka's dismay, it isn't long before the 'bubble' is popped quite shamelessly by Midget #4.

"Did you _really_ kill all those wolves with your bare hands, Miss Luka?" He asks eagerly, looking a little star struck.

Luka scowls, annoyed both at the interruption and the reminder. "I 'ad a pocket knife," she answers shortly. "It broke."

Midget #4 doesn't look at all put off. "Still! You must be a really good fighter, right?"

She huffs. "I would 'ope so. It _is_ my job."

Shield-dude joins the conversation. "You fight for a living?" He sounds scandalised. All down the line, heads begin to turn.

"Well, yeah." Luka shrugs, uncomfortable with all the attention she's suddenly getting. "I'm a… well, I guess yo' could call me a, uh, freelance cage fighter. Downtown pubs an' casino's an' dat hire me to be de, eh… final contestant? – de one de winner of last round 'as t' figh', 'nyway," she clarifies. "If they win, they ge' de prize, an' if I win, I ge' half of it."

"Only half?" Says Sam indignantly. "That doesn't seem very fair!"

Luka grins and shakes her head. "Ah, but dat's de thing. Dey hire me 'cause they t'ink they're gettin' de better deal, bu' they don' see de bigger picture. See, in cage fightin', women aren' usually allowed t' fight men; de difference in strengt' makes it too dangerous, _ouais?_ So, if I wanted to enter as a norma' competitor, there'd be hardl' anywhere holdin' fights I could be in… but since I'm a 'special case,' I can figh' wit' de men any nigh' de pubs are open – which 's every nigh', really."

Midget #4 blinks. "…I don't get it."

She shrugs, grinning wryly. "Think of it dis way, den: when I win – an' I always do – I ge' more money, m' _bosses_ ge' more money, an' at de end o' de nigh', everyone's happy 'cept the guy I beat up." She smirks. "Righ' up until de next nigh', when I can betcha 'e'll be righ' back in line wantin' another try… God bless de stubbornness o' men."

"So you do it for money?" Shield-dude looks vaguely disapproving. "Do not your father or husband earn money for your family? Brothers even?"

Instantly, Luka's good mood vanishes. Her eyes shutter, her face closes off. "I ain't got no-one but myself, mister." Her voice comes out stiff. "An' someone's gotta pay de bills."

His eyes widen. "I apologise. It was not my intention to upset you-"

"Nah," she waves him off, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the last two days crashing down on her. Her shoulders slump minutely. "S'okay. Yo' didn' know. An'… it's been a few years now… I should ge' over it."

" _Tu sais il était pas ta faute,"_ Angela says quietly, nudging her shoulder **(You know it wasn't your fault)**

Luka smiles tightly. _Well, that's a matter of opinion._

…

She manages to avoid conversation after that. Midget #4 – she reallyshould to learn his name – looks subdued after the unexpected turn in the conversation and soon wanders off to bother someone else, while Shield-dude (whose name she _does_ learn is Boromir) falls respectfully silent.

By the time night falls once more, even her own thoughts have quieted, leaving Luka feeling slightly pensive, but mostly just tired. She sits back against a rock as the men begin to unpack food. Dinner is cold rations – beef jerky, dried fruits, odd, tasteless flat-bread, various cheeses, and two slightly over-ripe carrots courtesy of Merry; Luka has no _idea_ where he could've gotten those from out here.

After eating the midgets-minus-the-redhead curl up in their, well… _cloaks_ is really the only word for it, which Luka takes to mean that they won't be walking on through the night (by the time it had gotten too dark to see more than a few yards ahead she'd been beginning to wonder).

She shivers.

The air is cold here, a dry, biting cold that cuts straight through her clothes to chill her skin and only serves to remind her just how far they are from home. Angela is evidently thinking along the same lines, because no sooner has the thought passed through Luka's head than her petite friend is shifting closer, huddling into her side for warmth.

Luka jumps. " _Mon Dieu!_ You're freezin', _chérie!"_ Unlike Luka, Angela hadn't been wearing a jacket the day of the Incident (as Luka has taken to calling it in her head), just a thin cotton t-shirt and jeans. Although, honestly, Luka's not doing much better with her three quarter cargos and a simple singlet under her (now) sleeveless denim jacket.

"Here." She shucks off her poor, mangled excuse for a jacket and helps Angela pull her goose bump-ridden arms through it, ignoring her own increased shivering.

"No need for that," a wizened voice from the gloom to her left startles her. "We would not leave you to freeze. Boromir and Aragorn have kindly offered you their cloaks, until such a time as we can obtain some warmer clothing for you." Gandalf appears, the afore-mentioned cloaks draped over his arm.

"Oh, well… that's nice of them," Angela says hesitantly. "But won't _they_ be cold?"

"I am sure they will manage."

"B-"

"Thanks," Luka interrupts, taking the cloaks with a sharp nod. If the men want to catch hypothermia in the night, that's not her problem. "Dat all?"

"I suppose so." He considers them with an inscrutable expression. "Make the most of this rest, both of you. Tomorrow we shall reach Moria, realm of the dwarves, and our passage through the mountains." He hesitates, then adds quietly, "I fear it shall not be an easy path."

Luka eyes sharpen. "Wha' do yo' mean? Is it dangerous fo' some reason?"

"Perhaps." Then he shrugs, seeming to shake off the heavy thoughts on his mind. "And perhaps it is merely an old man's paranoia. Do not trouble yourself, young ones. We shall see when the time comes."

Luka nods slowly, though her mind is buzzing with questions and not a small amount of alarm. Gandalf leaves as quietly as he had come, and Luka busies herself with working out how to fasten the tie of her borrowed cloak. It's only when he is nearly out of sight that she hears him murmur it.

"… _And I pray that I am mistaken."_

She stares after him, and shivers again… only this time it has nothing to do with the cold.

…

Moria, as Gandalf calls is, is an undeniably eerie sight.

The mountain is a barren grey rock, wrought with sharp outcroppings and the remnants of ancient landslides, while over it all a misty shroud hangs like a veil. The only signs of vegetation are patches of sparse, stringy grass clinging to the crags and the twisted roots of a dead tree, jutting out from the cliff-side to trip unwary travellers.

Luka eyes the sliver of path around it dubiously, before vaulting the roots instead. However, on the other side, she almost crashes into Gimli, who has stopped unexpectedly.

"…The walls of Moria," he whispers reverently, pointing a trembling finger.

 _-Wait, what?_

At first, Luka almost can't see what he's talking about. Then a gust of breeze stirs the air and the mist parts for a second. Through the gloom, she thinks she can just make out an area of darker grey that may or may not be the Gimli's 'wall'. Privately, she can't see anything different about this particular stretch of cliff compared to the ones they've been hiking past for the last two hours or so, but alright.

"Wha' exactly are we lookin' fo'?" She asks Aragorn as he steps up beside her. "I don't see anything."

He glances sidelong at her. "There is a door in the cliff side – or so I'm told. I have never taken this path myself, but I trust that Gandalf knows his way. How are you and your friend faring?"

Luka blinks. "We're fine."

"And your wounds?"

She glances at her bandaged arm and holds it out to him, as if to say, _'what do you think?'_

He examines the bandages, then leans back, apparently satisfied with the clean state she's kept them in.

"Very well. If you notice any swelling, tenderness, or an increase in pain you _must_ tell me immediately. Do you understand?" He grips her shoulder gently. "I cannot emphasise enough how important this is. You are fortunate enough to have avoided infection so far; it would not do to test your luck."

She nods. "Alrigh'." That makes sense.

He holds her gaze intently for a few seconds, before breaking into an - admittedly grim – smile. "See that you do."

The group inches over a narrow stone walkway that takes them over a pool of water. No, not a pool, Luka realises with a start, a _lake_. It is quite large, as well, though the pale murkiness of the water makes it difficult to distinguish from the mist and grey landscape.

Gandalf reaches the shore first and begins to trail along the wall slowly, examining it, while behind him Gimli trails, occasionally tapping the head of his axe against the stone to test its hollowness.

"Dwarf doors are invisible when closed," he informs them in his rumbling voice, punctuating the statement with another loud clang.

Luka's eyebrows go up. _Invisible,_ she thinks sardonically. _Oh really?_

"Yes Gimli," Gandalf agrees from further down the path. "Even their own masters cannot find them if their secrets are forgotten."

"…Why doesn't that surprise me?" Blondie mutters behind her, earning a snort from Luka.

 _Well, well, well. Would you look at that; Blondie has a sense of humour. Well, miracles can happen, I suppose._

At that moment, there is a loud splash. Luka's head shoot up, alarmed, but it's only Frodo taking a misstep into the water. She grimaces.

"Geez… dis place gives me de creeps."

Angela nods, crossing her arms uncomfortably.

"Yeah."

Up ahead, Gandalf comes to a halt between two – _live!_ – trees.

"Ahh…" he breathes. He runs a hand over the rock face, brushing away mud and lichen to reveal patterns carved into the rock. "Here. Ithildin…. it mirrors only starlight and… moonlight."

All at once, the clouds part (oddly conveniently) and the light of the full moon illuminates the scene. But not only can Luka finally see more than two metres in front of her feet, the wall, formerly as grey and lifeless as the rest of the scenery, lights up like a Christmas tree, brilliant silver light outlining the shape of an archway made from two pairs of carved pillars and trees.

Luka gapes.

" _Qu_ \- holy _shit!_ How-? _"_

"Behold the magic of the elves," Blondie says, a tad smugly.

"And _dwarven_ craftsmanship," Gimli adds pointedly.

"But-but…" She stammers for a moment, before shaking her head. "I give up. Either I'm crazy, or dis is real… bu' either way it's fuckin' _awesome!"_

"Must you speak so coarsely?" Blondie complains. "It is most unbecoming."

"HAH! I'll show you unbe-"

"That is _enough!"_ Gandalf snaps finally. "The _both_ of you!"

Blondie huffs and looks away, while Luka rolls her eyes. "Wha'ever."

… _Blondie started it._

"It reads, _'The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak friend, and enter."_

"What do supposed that means?" asks Merry, wide eyed.

"Oh, it's quite simple," Gandalf explains, suddenly cheerful again. If you are a friend, you speak the password and the doors will open."

He steps up to the door and places the tip of his stick on the star in the centre, calling out something utterly incomprehensible to Luka, but admittedly rather grand sounding…

…Only, nothing happens.

Luka and Angela exchange bemused glances, and Gandalf clears his throat, before shouting a different phrase. This too achieves nothing.

She coughs lightly. "Uh… maybe they don' t'ink you're a friend?"

Gandalf appears flummoxed, and not a little embarrassed. "No, that can't be it. Perhaps…"

After half a dozen more phrases in gibberish to no effect, the group begins to lose interest and drift away. Luka wanders down to the water's edge, gazing out at the lake thoughtfully.

She's beginning to wonder if there's more to this than she'd originally thought. It's crazy, of course, but… _that,_ back there… and the giant wolves, and the guys with pointy ears (because apparently the midgets all have pointy ears too), and all the talk of elves and dwarves and invisible doors that are _actually invisible_ …

It's enough to get to anyone's head.

She feels more than sees Angela sidle up to her. She even paler than before, which is kind of worrying, and her eyes are a little too wide.

"Hey Luka…" she whispers, "…do you feel like we're being… watched by something?"

Luka frowns. "N-"

A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye stops her.

… _What was that? Am I just imagining things?_

It happens again.

"Wai' a sec." She holds a finger to silence Angela, and crouches slowly, leaning forward until her eyes are almost level with the water.

 _Wait, wait…_ _**there!**_

... _Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?_

 _Yeah. Yeah it is._

"Ahh… _**merde.**_ Uh, guys?" She calls, standing, and backing away from the water, pulling Angela with her. "I hate t' break up de party, bu' we 'ave company!"

Aragorn is at her side instantly, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "What is it? What do you see?"

Luka laughs breathlessly. "It's a bloody baby kraken!"

"A baby _what?"_ Says Sam, at the same time as Angela yelps, "Wait, what? _Here?_ Are you serious?"

" _Completely_ serious!"

"Will one of you kindly explain what in Arda you're talking about?!" Boromir interjects impatiently.

"It's-it's, well… it's a sea monster, really, it isn't supposed to live in a _pond!_ " Angela stammers, clearly panicking.

"Yes, but _what_ is it?"

"It's, um… it has tentacles-"

"An' _lots_ o' teeth," Luka adds helpfully. "Kinda like a giant squid, 'cept, yo' know… it eats _people_. _"_

"…"

Someone whimpers, and then there's a sudden rush to get as far from the water as possible.

Luka finds herself with her back against the cliff wall squashed between Aragorn and Merry, watching tiny waves start to roll up to the shore.

"Hurry up, Gandalf!"

"Confound it all, Peregrin Took! Why don't you knock your head against the door and see if _that_ opens it!"

The waves grow stronger.

"Hey Gimli," Luka says, on the verge of hysterical laughter. "Do yo' t'ink de dwarves would open it if we jus' _knocked?_ "

"Wait!" Cries Frodo triumphantly. "It's a _riddle!_ Speak _'friend'_ … and enter! Gandalf, what's the elvish word for 'friend'?"

Gandalf wastes no time on ceremony. " _Mellon,"_ he says immediately, and finally, _finally_ ,the doors crack open. The group rush inside, breathing a collective sigh of relief to be away from the ominously stirring lake.

"Soon, master elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves," starts Gimli, eager to put the experience behind him. "Roaring fires… malt beer… red meat off the bone!"

Gandalf, a few steps in front of Luka, stops to blow on the end of his – and okay, that is definitely not just a _stick_. There's a fancy white crystal set in the tip that Luka hadn't payed any attention to before, but now it's lit up with a brilliance to rival the doors. It illuminates the room – entrance hall, rather – throwing light on piles of rubble and bones-

Wait, _bones?!_

 _C-raaac-ck…_

Luka freezes.

Her whimper is drowned out by Gimli's oblivious narration. "This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin, and they call it a mine. A _mine!_ "

By now the rest of the group have come to a halt, frozen in shell-shocked silence.

"…This is no mine," Boromir says quietly, saying what's on all their minds. "It's a _tomb."_

Luka looks down.

She's standing on someone's ribcage. Or rather, _in_ their ribcage.

" _Aieee-!"_

In this case, she thinks she can be forgiven for letting out a high-pitch yelp and leaping away.

"No." Gimli's voice is wrought with grief. "Nooo!"

"Goblins,"someone whispers harshly.

"We make for the Gap of Rohan," Boromir growls. "We should never have come here!"

Luka backpedals rapidly, snagging the arm of whoever's closest and beginning to drag them towards the door. _Fuck_ Krakens! She can deal with mythical sea monsters, but being trapped in a bloody _tomb_ with _skeletons_ is _too much!_

That thought changes a second later.

"Ahhhh!" A scream echoes through the hall, followed by cries of _"Frodo!"_ and _"Strider!"_

The scene is like something out of a horror movie. Sam, Merry and Pippin scrabble helplessly on the bank, while behind them countless glistening tentacles explode from the lake, one holding a screaming Frodo as he is whipped from side to side in its grip.

Luka freezes.

…

 _There are times in your life... when you think that one day, when you look death in the eye, you won't be scared._

…

She can't think, can't move, can't run or fight or scream.

So she just… _stands_ there, amidst the dust and the skeletons.

…

 _You think you'll give a battle cry… meet your end head on._

…

Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas rush to the other's aid. They hack at the tentacles, lop off a few, rescue Frodo.

…

 _You think you'll go out fighting._

…

They rush inside. The Kraken follows. The walls collapse around them.

…

 _Well, let me tell you… it doesn't happen like that._

...

And then everything goes black.

 **A/N: Okay, so that ended up being a lot longer than I expected. Oh well. All the better for you guys to read? XD**


	5. Chapter 5: Moria, Tomb of the Dwarves

**A/N: They're finally in Moria! Whoooo! XD**

 **On an unrelated not, I recently became aware that there is another LotR fanfiction by a different author that is also called 'Those With Courage'. I hadn't seen it before now, but since it was published first do you think I should change the name of this one? Can I even do that?**

 **Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

 **I also don't own Lord Tennyson's poem** _ **The Kraken.**_

 **Chapter 5: Moria, Tomb of the Dwarves**

 _Shame._

It is… not an emotion Luka is accustomed to feeling.

It settles like lead in her stomach, heavy and foreign. The emotion creeps up on her slowly, so unlike the bubbling of glee or the bonfire that is her rage. Not like the comforting warmth of companionship, or the sharp agony of grief.

Frankly, Luka _hates_ it.

She doesn't _like_ shame, doesn't want it. Anger is easier, but there is a time and place for that too, and it's not here. So she does what she always does when she's not angry: she smirks.

" _Then once by man and angels to be seen, in roaring he shall rise… and on the surface die,"_ she recites with an ironic twist to her lips.

There's silence for a moment, then, " _The Kraken,_ by Lord Alfred Tennyson. You remember…?"

Luka gives a bark of laughter. "How could I forge', _chérie_ , when you've _beaten_ it int' my 'ead?"

Angela giggles, and suddenly the world doesn't seem so dark anymore. Alright, so maybe that has something to do with the fact that Gandalf's staff is glowing again, but somehow Luka thinks it's more than physical. Angela tends to have that effect on people.

Of course, Gandalf's next words send her mood plummeting again.

"We now have but one choice," he says grimly, as the light blossoms, illuminating the pile of rubble that now separates them from the outside world. "We must face the long dark of Moria."

"…You're jokin'." Luka says flatly, smirk disappearing instantly – and _whoa, now_ it's time for anger. "You're fucking _jokin'._ Look _vieil homme,_ de dwarves are _dead._ " **(old man)**

Gimli lets out a choked sound of grief, but Luka hardens her heart and her voice. "They're _all_ dead. I'm sorry."

"Th-they could be hiding further in?" suggests Pippin in a small voice. Luka shakes her head, and points at the nearest corpse.

"Look at dis. Those…" she struggles to recall the English word. " _Flèches,_ Ange?"

The other girl looks to be stuck in a state of shock, but at Luka's words she blinks back to life. "Oh, um… arrows."

"Dose arrows 're 'n their chests. Dey fell on backs… facing _int'_ de mine."

The groups stares.

" _Good gods,_ " Boromir whispers. "She's right. The attack must have come from behind, which means the goblins either passed Lothlorien and broke through the Eastern gate or-

"Or dey were already 'ere," Luka finishes grimly. "Which means dey've probably been _breedin'_ in dis place since before de dwarves even arrived." In her mind, she conjures images of creeping shadows with glass dagger-teeth, steadily multiplying in the darkness beyond her sight. She shudders, glancing at the ashen faces of those around her.

"…How many d'yo' t'ink dere are now?"

 _Silence._

Finally, Gandalf sighs, weary and wary in equal measure. "A dangerous path it may be, but we have no choice now."

"Bullshit," she counters stubbornly. "De baby kraken out dere ain't movin' anymore. We'd be better off tryin' t' shift dese rocks den goin' further in an' wakin' all dose nasties."

"I was not referring to the rocks, though they would also pose a problem. There is simply no other path for us to take."

Luka stares at him, breathes sharply through her nose. _"What."_ She grits out.

"Moria is our last chance, I fear, as both Redhorn Pass and the Gap of Rohan are under the shadow of Sauroman." _(Sauroman who?_ She thinks fleetingly.) _"_ To chance capture by his forces would be folly when there is a possibility we could pass through Moria unnoticed."

" _Ouais_ – a _possibility!_ Dat we will all die! _"_

" _Lower your voice!"_ The elderly man growls quietly. "We have already established that we are not alone here. But there are older and… _fouler_ things than _orcs_ in the deep places of the world."

Luka swallows, suddenly unnerved. _Like what?_ She wants to ask, but Gandalf is already climbing the stairs.

"It is a four day journey to the other side," he rumbles over his shoulder. "Be on your guard."

She has to hold in a snort.

 _Be on your guard. Yeah, right. That'll help._

She checks her phone. It turns on just long enough for her to see the red 4% on the battery symbol before the screen goes black. She closes her eyes and sighs.

 _Well, crap._

…

-Angela-

Angela Jannet Webber is, if nothing else, adaptable.

She'd adapted at the age of five, when her father had stormed off one night in a drunken rage and never come back. She'd adapted again when she met Luka, freshly broken by loss and ready to lash out at the world, and again when her mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer and died and left Angela alone with nothing to her name but her two room apartment and a few fading photographs.

But she gets over it, gets up and keeps going. Partly because she _has_ to… and partly because she has Luka now, and for all the older girl's raging protectiveness of her, she isn't all that good at looking after herself, and, well… _someone_ has to.

Angela isn't stunningly beautiful, or naturally talented in all things athletic like Luka, or even particularly witty.

But she's _adaptable._

She doesn't suffer the incessant need to challenge authority that her friend does, or feel the same sudden urge to throw death-defying stunts on a daily basis. In fact, Angela is quite content to be – and _remain_ – a follower.

Which is why, after waking up to a most unusual and distressing situation, she had cried a few tears, then given herself a good talking to and buckled down for the long haul.

No whiny nonsense about wearing the same clothes for three days in a row or having to use the far side of a boulder for a bathroom (though that _had_ been a little uncomfortable). _Nope._ If Gandalf says that this lady in Lothlorien can help them get home, then Angela is going to get them there if she has to drag Luka along kicking and screaming by the ear – or so help her!

It's a long road, and it's about to get longer, but still… all limbs intact.

Time to be grateful.

…

-Luka-

"The wealth of Moria," Gandalf informs the company as they file onto a narrow ledge no wider than a footpath and infinitely more precarious, "was not in gold, or jewels, but _mithril._ "

He holds out his staff, and the gem's light flares, throwing light and shadows on the very, _very_ long drop over the edge. Luka inches as close to the precipice as she dared and peers down into the gloom; she can't see the bottom.

What she can see though, is glittering veins of silver ore, catching the light and reflecting it in endless circles down the mine shaft. It's… oddly beautiful.

"Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings, that Thorin gave him," Gandalf continues.

Gimli speaks up for the first time since the travellers had discovered the dwarves' skeletons at the entrance. "Oh… that was a _kingly_ gift!"

"Yes. I never told him, but its worth was greater than the value of the Shire."

The others look impressed, but it means nothing to Luka, considering that she doesn't even know what the word "shire" means in English, let alone whatever thing or place Gandalf is referring to. But she does get the gist of it: mithril is expensive. Not that it's at all relevant to the current situation.

Gandalf leads them away from the ledge and up yet another set of stairs. This one is so steep that it's almost vertical; the travellers have to literally climb on all fours so as to not overbalance and fall back down. In any other situation, Luka would have loved it, would have spent hours racing up and down as fast as she could just for the challenge of it – but this isn't a game, or a rock wall at a gym. There's no safety net, no harness, and it's a _long_ way down.

"AH!"

A few metres from the top, Pippin, who is beside and slightly above her, slips on a crumbling step, almost kicking her in the ribs as he flails. Rolling her eyes, she catches the back of his collar and hauls him back up.

"Watch yo' feet, _môme,_ " she grumbles without any real heat. **(brat)**

Pippin blinks at her, wide eyed. "Oh. Thankyou."

"… _De rien."_ She replies after a moment.

"De rien? What's that mean?"

"None o' yo' b-"

"It means 'you're welcome,'" Angela interjects quietly from below. Luka scowls at her. _Traitor._

Pippin blinks again. "Oh," he mumbles, and thankfully doesn't bring it up again.

Finally scaling the last step, Luka steps forward and almost collides with Gandalf, who has stopped suddenly.

"Whoa!" She peers around him, glancing at the path ahead, which splits into three separate archways. "Wha's de hold up?"

Gandalf looks pensive. "…I have no memory of this place."

Luka feels her stomach sink. _Well shit._ "So… wha' do we do now?"

"Now," Merry sighs as he clambers up behind Pippin, looking resigned, "we wait."

…

And so they wait.

The nine men and two women settle into the little landing platform, taking seats on small boulders or curling up under the overhang, if only for the comfort of a solid wall at their back. Luka, however, paces along the edge, feeling restless and paranoid.

At first, the darkness below seems absolute. Then suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of a small patch of shadow that seems to shift, slinking closer to them. She stills.

Frodo notices first. "What is it?" He whispers fearfully, standing and shifting closer to her. "Is there something down there?"

Wordlessly, Luka points. "There, by de ladder. Do yo' see dat?"

Frodo follows the line of her finger and gasps. "What _is_ that?"

She shrugs. "No' a clue."

"It is Golem," Gandalf answers suddenly from behind, causing Luka to jump and scowl. "He's been following us for three days."

Luka's mind blanks. "'e's been _what?"_

"He escaped the dungeons of Barad-dûr!" Frodo exclaims simultaneously. Gandalf glances at him from under the brim of his pointy hat, ignoring Luka's wide-eyed expression of dismay.

"Escaped? Or was set loose?" He looks away again. "And now the ring has drawn him near."

"Wai', _quoi?_ 'De ring'? _Wha'_ ring?" Luka can't help but feel frustrated that she is, yet again, left out of the loop. But still, " _Copain_ , If yo' go' somethin' dat's callin' creepy-crawlies to us, I t'ink you'd better ge' rid o' it real quick." **(Buddy)**

Frodo's hand flies to the chain around his neck. "I can't," he says tersely, looking almost suspicious of her, though Luka has no idea why.

"Why not?"

"I-"

" _That_ , I believe," Gandalf cuts in, "is a conversation for another day. Luka, if you will, I would like to speak with Frodo for a moment."

Luka glances uneasily over the ledge. "Shouldn' we, uh… I mean, is Golem gonna attack us if we leave 'im be?"

"He will not approach when we are so many, I do not think. And not when he knows Aragorn and myself from his previous capture. We are safe… for now."

He turns away, and Luka gets the message to skedaddle. "If yo' think so," she says sceptically, but moves back to the others. Angela scoots over on her rock as she approaches, and Luka slips in beside her.

"Hey, _chérie_ ," she mumbles, dropping her chin on her friend's shoulder and curling her fingers into slightly bedraggled blonde strands where they trail over Angela's shoulder blades. Angela makes a small soothing noise and wraps an arm around her, recognising without needing to be told that all Luka needs right now is the closeness of another living body, the comfort of knowing that she has a friend watching her back. This place, the silence, the constant tension… it's _draining_. Physically and mentally.

They sit there in silence until Gandalf returns, having remembered (or rather, _smelled,_ apparently) the right path. When they begin walking again, Angela stays beside her, their shoulders occasionally brushing, and Luka is ridiculously relieved.

…

"NO!"

Without warning, Gimli gives a cry of raw anguish and breaks away from the group, running to a small side chamber of the huge hall they're currently walking through.

"Gimli!"

The travellers race after him, alarmed. Luka, unburdened by a pack as the others are, reaches the doorway first. She catches a glimpse of the interior and her steps falter.

The room, like most of the mine, is littered with skeletons and rubble. However, Luka senses that the devastation here holds a greater weight than elsewhere. In the centre of the room is a large rectangular stone pedestal, engraved with runes and illuminated by a spear of sunlight that comes from a hole in the far wall.

It is unmistakably a burial casket.

… _Oh._

The others file into the room, lingering uncertainly in the doorway as Gimli falls to his knees before the tomb, heart-wrenching sobs wracking his frame. His grief is so intense that Luka has to look away, memories of her own grief clogging up her throat.

Finally Gandalf, lines of sorrow etched into his brow, leans forward and reads the words on the tomb aloud.

"Here lies Balin, son of Fundin… Lord of Moria." He turns to stare grimly at her. "He is dead then; it is as you feared."

Luka feels pale and ill, but she feels compelled to say something, anything. Quietly, she murmurs, "…Fo' once, I woul' rather 'ave been wrong."

A small hand curls around the fabric of her (borrowed) cloak. It's Pippin. He leans into her and whispers, "It's alright, Miss Luka. We know you didn't mean it."

He looks at her with such an earnest, trusting expression that Luka feels her heart melt, just a little.

"Thank you."

" _D-De rien_." He stumbles over the word, but the intent is clear. The corner of her mouth curls up slightly.

Suddenly, Gandalf's hat is thrust into her hands, causing her to jump. Pippin, equally startled, fumbles with his staff as the grey-cloaked elder bends down to remove an old book from the hands of a skeleton sitting slumped against the tomb. He brushes it off and cracks it open gently, dust and loose page raining down.

" _They have taken the bridge,"_ he reads, _"and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long."_

Pippin trembles. She puts a hand on his shoulder.

" _The ground shakes. Drums… drums in the deep."_

Luka snaps. "Okay, dat's it. We need t' go, _now._ "

"I agree," Legolas says, for once without a single hint of sarcasm. "We cannot linger."

Gandalf ignores them both. _"We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out."_ He pauses, and everyone seems to hold their breath.

"… _They are coming."_

Luka swallows.

"I won't say it again," she warns, voice coming out far steadier than she feels. "We _need_ to leave. _Now,_ Gandalf."

He seems to shake himself out of a reverie, standing and reclaiming his belongings from them.

"Very well. It is not far now to the eastern gate. With luck, we shall reach it in a matter of hours."

She feels a rush of giddy relief. Soon they'll be out of this cursed mine, out in the sun and the breeze. For Luka, it can't come fast enough.

 **A/N: Okay, so originally I was going to bulldoze through the whole of Moria in one chapter, but if I did it would probably take me another week to update and I don't want to do that to you guys. So here's the first part, and hopefully the good bit will be written soon. =)**

 **See ya.**


	6. Chapter 6: Little Knife

**A/N: Finally finished this whopper of a chapter! Thank god haha! XD**

 **So, if anyone actually reads my rambling A/Ns, I just wanted to say thank you so much for giving this story a try. I'm kind of a newbie on fanfiction, but I've had an amazing time so far and it just makes my day to see that little 'views' bar go up when I refresh my profile page, so thank you,** _ **merci, arigato,**_ **and thanks in every other language there is out there that I haven't had the chance to learn yet! XD**

 **Apart from that, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! You might find it goes a little differently from canon. I got tired of reading the same thing in every single fanfiction, like,** _ **ever.**_ **So this time the 'butterfly effect' is actually going do something.**

 **Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

 **Chapter 6: Little Knife**

"Luka."

At the door, Aragorn pulls her aside and presses something smooth and solid into her hand. She glances down, then back at him, eyebrows almost disappearing into her hair.

"Yo' trus' me wit' a knife? Wha' happened t' thinkin' we were spies?"

Aragorn quirks a matching eyebrow. "Do you want me to take it back?"

 _Well._ Luka has no answer for that. It's just… _weird_ for this perpetually suspicious man to place his faith in her even for a moment, given that only days ago he'd been ordering double watches so someone could keep an eye on her and Angela at all times.

Aragorn seems satisfied. "I trust you can handle that without injuring yourself?"

Luka grins, deciding not to look the gift horse in the mouth. "Yo' betcha I can." She flips the blade the right way up, revelling in the sense of rightness at the familiar gesture.

He pats her on the shoulder, something close to pride or maybe respect flashing in his eyes. "Good lass."

They catch up to the rest of the group out in the hall, and in short order they are on the move once more, if rather more subduedly than before. Even Pippin and Merry, notoriously incapable of keeping their mouths shut, are silent.

Luka doesn't bother trying to fit the knife into her boot sheathe. It's a curved, double-sided hunting knife about the length of her forearm, unlike her little (sadly deceased) switchblade, and there's no way in Merlin's baggy Y-fronts it will fit. Instead, she grips it loosely in her right hand, letting herself adjust to its weight.

They continue through the hall, towering pillars of stone looming impressively, but Luka doesn't bat an eyelid. She's seem more ridiculous architecture over the last three days than in her entire childhood in the slums of Louisiana; nothing can surprise her anymore.

(And once again, the universe says, _JINX_.)

Before Luka has time to react, a shadow detaches itself from the wall and tackles her, knocking her to the ground. Her head cracks against the stone, and the knife clatters from her hand. She sees a half-finished wave of stars; it hangs, waits in her left eye.

 _F-uuuuck…_

Then a bony hand closes around her throat, and Luka is abruptly pulled back to reality. She snarls.

First things first.

 _Crunch!_

Her fist collides with her assailant's ribs, throwing him/her/it off her chest. Immediately, she flips them over, catches one flailing arm and snaps it over her knee. It – definitely an _it_ – releases a hissing shriek and struggles, but Luka is in control now. She grapples with it for a moment – breaks its other arm when it proves stubborn – and hauls its head back with an arm locked around its throat, knees still pressing into the creature's scaly back to keep it on down.

"Gotcha, _enfoirié_!" **(VERY bad word, please don't quote me)**

She locks gazes with her companions, who are all in various stages of combat-readiness, and grins a tad viciously. The whole thing had only taken a few seconds.

"Caught m'self a li'le creeper," she coos with mock innocence. "Wha'e'er shall I do wit' 'im…?"

"Kill it," Aragorn says gruffly as he steps forward, the point of his sword not wavering.

"But-" protests Angela, wide-eyed.

He cuts over her. "Hurry. Goblins do not hunt alone."

Luka shrugs, then twists the goblin's head to the side without warning. There is a sickening crunch and it finally falls still. She stands, kicking the corpse away, and retrieves her knife.

"Wha'e'er."

" _Luka!"_ Angela shrieks, face etched with horror.

"Wha'?"

"Luka… y- you can't just… _kill_ people! It- it's _wrong!_ "

Luka stares blankly. "…Dat ain't a person, _chérie_ ," she explains slowly, as if to a child. "'s a _goblin._ " The distinction seems obvious to her. One wants to beat her up, the other wants to eat her. _Eugh._

" _So?!_ You can't- that… that's _speciesism!"_

"Goblins are not people," Gandalf interrupts quietly, but every ear turns to listen. "They have no concept of mercy, or love. All they know is an endless hunger." His eyes soften a fraction. "Would that every soul could be so pure as yours, young one, but there is no place for pity in times such as these. Should your friend have spared that creature, it would only have gone on to cause further pain and destruction."

While this is happening, Aragorn moves closer to Luka and examines the back of her skull critically, probing the rapidly forming bruise gently.

"'ey!" She bats his hand away. " _Oui_ , it 'urts. Bugger off."

"You really need to stop hitting your head on things," he observes blandly, but with a wealth of dry humour buried under his straight-faced tone. "One of these days you're going to get brain damage."

She snickers, smirking. "Nah. Ange tells me I'm too thick-'eaded fo' dat."

Aragorn cracks a smile. "That may be true. Nevertheless, take care. On that note, how is your arm healing?"

Luka shrugs. She hasn't even thought about that injury in a while. "Scabbin's itchin' a li'le, but 's alrigh'."

"Tha-"

Screeches rent the air.

The reaction is instantaneous.

"They are coming!" Gandalf shouts, drawing his sword. "Hobbits, get behind me! Angela, you too!"

She, Luka notes, is conspicuously absent from that list. So Gandalf thinks she can handle herself? _Better not prove him wrong._

The goblins pour into the hall like a wave, skittering down from pillars and bursting from shadowy corners. Soon, a small group turns into a mass, then an ocean. They just keep coming.

Luka begins to feels slightly nervous. There's eleven – well, six really – of them, against what? Hundreds? _Thousands?_ The first goblin hadn't exactly been difficult to kill, but still…

"Say, Gandalf," she says, not looking away from the encroaching mass, "'ow far is it now t' de exit?"

"Quarter of an hour at least," he answers grimly.

And then she hears it.

 _Boom. Boom._

The sound reverberates, thrumming through the floor and triggering a shower of dust and small stones from the roof.

 _Boom. Boom._

 _Drums,_ Luka realises with a sinking heart. ' _Drums in the deep.' Oh, bloody 'ell._

Boromir swears under his breath, and _damn, that's a good one,_ she should remember that.

"Run! Go, make for the Bridge!"

They're not going to make it. There's no way in _hell_ they're going to make it, but what else can they do? She feels the adrenaline spike under her skin, the way it buzzes, the way it _burns,_ and laughs wildly _._

"Dat sounds like 'n _excellen'_ plan!"

And so they run.

If the timing hadn't been totally inappropriate, Luka almost could've cracked a joke about how it's the fastest she's ever seen the midgets move. Unfortunately, she's a little busy multitasking between keeping one eye on their pursuers and the other pointed forward so she doesn't run into a pillar.

Or, you know, a _goblin_. There are plenty of those.

One particularly ugly blighter takes a go at her as the company makes a break for the exit archway. There's really no time to slow down or change directions, and Luka doesn't have much inclination to anyway.

She takes an Assassin's Creed-certified flying frog-leap at it, bowls it to the floor and introduces its eyeball to her knife. It… splatters.

 _Eugh._

Gagging slightly, she jumps up and keeps running. No time to inspect her clothes for gore-stains, but she's pretty sure the first thing she's doing when/if they get out of here is jumping in a river, cleanliness of the water be damned.

Then they're out of the hall, bursting through a small tunnel and into another cavern, this time with an actual _staircase._ Or, well… _half_ of one, Luka discovers as Angela wind-mills precariously on the edge. She feels her heart literally stop in her chest for a moment before she manages to get an arm around Angela's waist and hauls them both back. They land painfully on the steps – she somehow avoids cracking her head for a third time, _thank gods_ – but that's _way_ better than the alternative.

Then Angela's skull collides with her jaw, and she yelps.

" _Putain!"_

"Sorry, sorry!" Angela scrambles off her, dragging them both to their feet.

Boromir, guarding the rear, comes skidding out of the tunnel with an almost maniacal expression on his face, as if he doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or beat his head on a wall. Luka can relate.

"They have a cave troll!" He announces, and _the fuck is a_ cave troll _?!_ Luka's mind shrieks. _Like, an actual honest-to-god squish-you-then-eat-you cave troll?! Mair-DUHH!_

"Dis place _sucks!"_ She yells aloud. She's ignored.

"To the Bridge of Khazad-dûm!" Gandalf thunders. "Go! Swords are no more use here!"

"Ahh, _yes dey are_!" Luka disagrees, sticking a goblin's throat and kicking it over the edge of the path for emphasis. By now, they're literally _wading_ through the little critters, taking them down by the dozen but they _keep fucking coming._

And all the while the drums pound below, working them into a frenzy.

 _Boom. Boom. Boom. (Can't stop us) Boom. (We're coming) Boom. (Keep running, keep running, no way out._

 _ **Boom.**_

A great chunk of the roof brakes away with a scraping groan, smashing into the staircase and sending a good two metres of it spinning away into the darkness. Legolas, in the lead now, doesn't hesitate. He leaps across lightly, then turns back to gesture at the others.

"Gandalf!"

Gandalf jumps, and the midgets follow with varying degrees of reluctance.

"Luka!" Aragorn shouts, shoving her forward, but Luka's having none of it.

"Angela firs'!"

He growls, but evidently the past week and a bit has taught him something of her stubbornness, because he ushers the other girl to the edge without further protest. "Go! Don't look down!"

Another crash makes Luka's head snap up.

Silhouetted in the silvery light of the mithril veins is a huge, grey-skinned creature clutching what looks to be a wooden club. It spots them and roars, baring a gaping maw of razor-sharp teeth, and _shit,_ even the _goblins_ back off.

"Uhhh," she starts nervously. "I'm guessin' dat's de troll?"

Aragorn swears. "Go! Get across!"

Too late.

The troll, still on the landing platform above them, hurls its club. Time seems to slow.

It spins. _Around, and around, and around-_

" _Get down!"_

Aragorn tackles her back up the stairs.

 _ **BOOM!**_

The heavy wooden implement smashes into the steps where her feet had been just a millisecond ago, sending splinters of stone flying in every direction. Luka feels one embed itself in her thumb where it still wraps around the handle of her knife, her hand being the only part of her not shielded by Aragorn's body, and it _hurts like all fucking hells-_

Aragorn grunts and rolls off her, hissing through his teeth. Luka spares a moment to glance at him and he looks _terrible._ Blood is matted in his hair, drips down his arms and soaks his shirt. As he stands, bloodied shards fall free, clattering to the stone.

" _Merde_ ," she rasps. " _Yo_ -"

 _ **BOOM!**_

She'd forgotten the troll itself. It leaps from the top of the stairs, landing with a shuddering crash that causes the entire staircase to shake and widens the gap between the group by another two metres.

"Jump," Aragorn grinds out between gritted teeth, one hand clutching his shoulder. A trails of ruby blood slips out between his fingers.

She shakes her head vehemently. "Not withou' yo'!"

"I'll follow! GO!"

 _Lair_ , she wants to scream _._ He's barely standing.

She bares her teeth, snarls at the troll to _keep back,_ and tightens her grip on the knife, for all the good it will do.

"I'm no' leavin' yo' _damnit!_ " It's a declaration and a promise. _I'm not leaving you, I'm not I'mnot-_

Her instincts scream, and she yanks them both down as something whips overhead, just scraping her temple.

" _Putai-"_

It lashes by again, going the other way. A chain. A fucking _chain!_

There's no time for questions. On the third pass, it clips her arm, opening another gash. She yelps, scrabbles back towards the edge, dragging her half-delirious with pain companion with her.

Eyes narrowed and furious, she brings the hunting knife to her mouth and bites the handle between her teeth.

Luka has a plan. A crazy, ridiculous, _insane_ plan. It's got about a one-in-a-million chance of working, but she doesn't have the luxury of making a better one.

So the fourth time the troll swings its chain, she's ready. She's turning even before it slaps into her hand, twisting with its momentum in a vain attempt to lessen the impact. It works, maybe.

It still hurts though, hurts like someone's set her _fucking hand on fire_ , like they've tipped a _bucket of acid_ over it, like _every inch of skin_ has been _flayed_ off.

She clenches her teeth around the leather grip and _**snarls.**_

 _Not my friends you_ énfoire _, not then not now nevernever_ _ **never**_ _-_

Fury and desperation lend her strength, and the tilting of the stairs aids her in yanking the troll forward. At first, it only stumbles, but she capitulates on its imbalance and pulls even harder, pulls until she can feel her own blood slick against the metal under her hands.

Finally, the troll seems to realise what's happening, and it jerks to a halt. Luka's heart jumps to her throat.

 _No not yet, just a little more, come on, come on-_

Below hers, another pair of hands tighten around the chain.

"On three," Aragorn rasps in her ear, sweat and blood and determination clinging to his scent. "One, two, _three-"_

The troll, taken by surprise, jerks forward and trips on to its knees.

 _ **NOW!**_

Abandoning the chain and any remaining shreds of sanity, Luka bounds up the stairs and _leaps._

Her jump carries her onto the troll's shoulder and almost over the other side. At the last second, she catches herself on a fold of skin and manages to sling herself up onto its head, panting around the knife and scrabbling for a hold on its scaly hide.

She removes the blade from her mouth and stabs it in the troll's skull like a mountain climber's pick. Immediately, the troll roars and staggers to its feet, throwing her from her perch, but she clings the knife desperately, and when the troll stabilises she claws her way back up, jerks the blade back and-

 _S-niiick..._

The knife buries itself up to the hilt in the troll's eye cavity – the only path to its brain not protected by its thick skull and thicker hide.

The toll sways. For a fraction of a second, the world seems to stand still.

Luka bares her teeth in a silent snarl.

Aragorn slips to his knees.

The Fellowship watch with bated breath.

…And then the troll collapses.

Luka is flung from atop it, losing her grip on the blade and wrenching her shoulders painfully. The only thing she can think, as she tumbles ass over teakettle for what has to be the millionth time that week, is that it's going to hurt even more when she hits the floor.

She's right.

 **A/N: Oh. My. God. That took me forever…. And I didn't even end up finishing Moria completely! However, I going to give** **SPOILERS** **and say that that's the biggest fight Luka'll be in for a while. Yep, that's right. No Balrog. See, it always kind of pisses me off that people write Moria either as exactly the same except for the hero/ine joining in the action, or they have their OC be majorly OP and take out the Balrog themselves, saving Gandalf in the process. I don't** _ **like**_ **predictability. It's so… I don't know… insulting to fanfiction, I guess. I mean, what's the point in making people read the bloody chapter if it's pretty much canon +1? So, in this story, Pippin never knocked the skeleton down the well, meaning that the Balrog never woke up. Or if he did, it was too late to catch the Fellowship. Ta-da! Brilliant logic, I know. XD**

 **Review? Pretty please?**


	7. Chapter 7: The Butterfly Effect

**A/N: Chapter 7 is here! Sorry it took longer than usual, it was Term 4 exam block this week so I had to actually study for once… and I four exams on one day. That wasn't fun.**

 **Also, thank you so much to Zip001, Reader 1, and Anonymous for your reviews! You guys are awesome. =) Zip001, since you like Angela so much, this chapter is almost entirely in her perspective and I'm dedicating it to you!**

 **Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

 **Chapter 7: The Butterfly Effect**

They escape Moria, narrowly.

Later, Luka can't recall much of it at all, aside from being slung over someone's shoulder and the inane discovery that when goblin blood mixes with human blood it gains the consistency of glue, which is really gross.

She _does_ remember the moment when they burst out into the sunlight, remembers it _vividly_. Her eyes water and burn but she forces them to stay open, somehow desperate not to close her eyes because then she might realise that this is all a dream and all this pain is in her head, all for nothing.

Because it _hurts._ Hurts, hurts, _hurts_ like that time when Luka had been twelve and starving and she'd bet Tommy Muller two hundred pounds that she could beat him in a fight, when really she didn't _have_ two hundred pounds and back then the only thing she'd known about fighting was to hit harder than the other guy, but she'd kept fighting, kept bleeding, kept getting up again and again and again because her little brother was so thin she could see every rib through his shirt and she'd _promised_ him she'd bring home food.

And now, as then, it's _worth it._

Worth all the pain in the world if it keeps the people Luka cares about safe, worth Angela crying when she gets home from another night at work with a bloodied face and a roll of notes clenched in her hand, worth the sting and the blur and the blood that stains the rocks when Boromir sets her down and she can't summon the energy to warn him that she's probably concussed _again._

Aragorn seems to read her mind though, because suddenly he's kneeling by her head, still battered and dripping blood everywhere.

"Thought… I told you… to stop… hitting… your head," he rasps with a too-big grin and lightly glazed eyes, fumbling for a fresh roll of bandages.

A giggle slips from her mouth unbidden. She stops and blinks, because _what's so funny again?_ She has no idea, but it must have been a good joke because now she's laughing again and she can't stop, even though laughing is kind of painful.

"M'sorry," she says as seriously as she can in-between giggles. _"_ M'sorry, sorry… _Non, Papa est fatigue, rien à manger aujourd'hui… ne pleures pas Émile, je suis ici…"_

Another face framed by dark curls wavers in front of her vision, a young boy with an impish smile and a missing tooth.

She trails off.

...

-Angela-

"What is she saying?" asks Boromir quietly. Angela crouches next to her friend, taking one corpse-white hand between both of her own.

"It's… she's remembering something, I think. _'No, Papa is tired,_ '" she translates aloud, mouth twisted into an unhappy frown. " _'…Nothing to eat today… don't cry Émile, I'm here.'_ " She bites her lip and explains cautiously, not sure how Luka would feel about Angela sharing her past with people they've only known for a week. "Émile was her younger brother. He… died when Luka was sixteen. I, uh- I don't know the whole story, but… Luka blames herself."

The group, scattered around in the general vicinity, fall into a sombre silence. Death and blame are old friends now, since watching two of their own fight almost to the death and being unable to help for fear of causing the bridge to collapse further.

Aragorn takes that moment to keel over unconscious.

Angela swears and dives forward, just managing to catch his head before it cracks against the rocks. Her elbow clips the ground and she hisses a quiet curse but focuses on lowering him gently to the ground, tilting his chin back slightly to keep his airways open.

She examines him critically, checking his pulse (weak) and putting her head on his chest for a moment to check his breathing (clear). The worst seems to be the splinters, though there aren't all that many, so- _wait._

Carefully, she manoeuvres the unconscious man onto his side and peels back the edge of his blood and sweat-soaked shirt. Underneath, his back is a mess of tiny gashes, no more than a centimetre wide, but deep – some still with jagged shards of rock embedded in them.

She winces, and clears her throat. "Uh, does anyone have a pair of tweezers?"

Sam jumps to his feet. "I do, Miss Angela!" He wrestles with his pack for a moment before proudly presenting said utensil.

"Thanks. Oh, and can I borrow someone's water bo- uh, skin?"

Legolas passes her his.

"Great." Steeling herself, she takes the tweezers and sets about removing the shards as carefully as possible and setting them aside. Under normal circumstances, Angela recalls, she's supposed to leave any debris in the wound to stem blood flow. However, she doesn't trust the grimy shards not to cause infection, so she'd rather get them out first and deal with blood loss later.

Once the rocks are out, she pours water over the wounds, flushing out particles of crushed rock and watery blood alike. Without a liberal coating of grime, the wounds looks both better and worse.

Better, because at least now they're bleeding red blood instead of brown, and worse, because she now she can see just how deep they really are. She casts her mind back to the summer first aid class she'd taken years ago. _Wounds deeper than a centimetre need stiches, right? …Right?_

She almost buries her head in her hands right then and there – she's so out of her depth here it isn't even funny. But Aragorn is unconscious and Luka is still babbling deliriously in French, and they're the only two people that Angela knows who could deal with this better than she can. So she takes a deep breath and sets her jaw stubbornly.

"I need a needle and thread," she orders, "and some antiseptics if you have any. He's gonna need stiches."

She's no medic, that's for sure. But if she can muddle through this mess and come out the other side with everyone intact, that'll be enough for her.

…

By the time Angela has sutured all the gashes that need it and firmly tied off the bandages, the sun is hanging low in the sky and the older members of the group are starting to eye the closed doors of Moria with trepidation.

Angela tugs Aragorn's tattered shirt back down with a sigh and shuffles over to check on her friend, who has finally fallen silent and has taken to blinking at everyone with disarmingly innocent doe eyes.

"Hey, Lu," she mumbles tiredly, carefully rewrapping the bandages on Luka's head that had been abandoned while she tended to Aragorn. The Cajun girl doesn't reply, doesn't even acknowledge her words aside from another slow blink. Angela snorts.

"Have you ever thought about picking a safer profession?" She complains lightly, using the last of Legolas' water to rinse the blood off her friend's hands before wrapping them. "Like maybe, I don't know… dressmaking?"

Luka's nose crinkles slightly, and Angela snickers.

"Yeah, I know right? You, making _dresses?_ That's never gonna happen. I mean, _geez,_ you won't even _wear_ them."

She continues to chatter soothingly until Gandalf returns from the river with Sam and freshly full water skins.

"On your feet," he rouses, to mild grumbling from the hobbits. "It is high time we leave. Soon it will be nightfall, and the goblins will venture out of the mine. We had best not be here when they do." Legolas approaches and lifts Luka, manoeuvring her into something resembling a fireman's lift with enviable ease.

Their bitter rivalry apparently doesn't apply when one of them is unconscious.

"Come," he says to Angela, gesturing with his head. "I will carry her and Boromir will carry Aragorn. We must make haste."

Angela stands and cracks her back. "I can carry her some of the way, if you like?" she offers. "Or I could take your pack?"

He glances at her over his shoulder, already stepping away.

"Take Boromir's instead. He has the heavier load."

She shrugs. "Alright."

…

They march faster than usual, keen to avoid another brush with the hordes of Moria. Angela and the hobbits almost have to run to keep up with Gandalf's longer strides, but soon enough the barren rock gives way to low shrubs and then tall, spindly trees with silvery bark.

The lazy warmth of the shade is a welcome change from the chill they've endured the past few days. Angela is content to enjoy it in silence, but Gimli, as usual, has an opinion to share.

"Stay close, young hobbits," he whispers loudly, ushering Frodo and Sam along. "They say that a great sorceress lives in these woods."

That catches her attention. "Sorceress?" She asks curiously, and a tad warily. "Should we be worried about being attacked, then?"

Gandalf huffs. "The only sorceress in these woods, master dwarf, is a very dear friend of mine. She will not harm us."

At that very moment, as if to prove him wrong, slim figures melt from the shadows, arrows knocked and gleaming. Angela flinches back with a short cry of surprise, instinctively batting an arrow tip away of her face.

The man – no, _elf_ – holding it, stares at her impassively and merely retakes his aim.

"Mithrandir," a blonde elf to her right says to Gandalf, lowering his bow, and the others follow suit. "You have returned," his lip curls ever so slightly, eyes lingering in particular on Gimli, "with… company."

" _Haldir o' Lorien_ ," Gandalf rumbles his greeting in that lilting language from the western gate. "We seek the hospitality of Lothlorien. Pray, let us pass; it has been a trying day."

Haldir, as Angela figures he's called, frowns and turns to stare at Frodo, who seems to shrink under his gaze. "One among your company carries a great darkness with him. I await orders from my Lady. Until then, you cannot pass beyond the borders of this land."

"Come now," Gandalf coaxes, leaning on his staff. "You know of our quest, do you not? It is a necessary evil that Frodo carries."

The elf remains stubborn. "I await orders," he repeats.

Angela's gaze flickers anxiously to Luka, who is as pale as chalk and almost as still. Making a split second decision, she subtly settles her posture into something more submissive, hunching her shoulders and clasping her hands before her. "Please," she pleads, forcing her eyes as wide and vulnerable-looking as possible. "My friend is dying as we speak!"

Alright, so 'dying' might be a little bit of an exaggeration, but it can hardly hurt. Angela is good at playing innocent-little-faun; she has just the right physique for it, all delicate and porcelain-pale, and the way her fringe frames her face has always made her look younger than her age. Luka knows her too well to fall for her tricks anymore, but Haldir and his men are fresh meat.

Predictably, Haldir's stony expression falters for a moment and Angela feels a flash of triumph, which she conceals by ducking her head a little to let her fringe hang over her face as if suddenly shy.

" _Nikerym?_ " One of the other elves murmurs, glancing at the blonde elf. **(Captain?)**

"We will take you to one of the patrol _flets_ ," he decides finally, a hint of resignation in his features. "You may rest there tonight, and your friend and the other one will be tended. That is all I can offer you."

"Thank you," Angela says gratefully with relief that she doesn't need to fake. "That is more than enough."

She would probably feel guiltier about it, but, well… Luka really _is_ hurt, and the sooner they get to Lothlorien, the sooner they can go home. That's the end-game here.

Haldir nods. With a fleeting hand gesture, the other elves fade back into the forest as though they had never been there at all, while Haldir turns on his heel and stalks away, leaving the oddball group to hasten after him. Along the way, Angela falls in step with Boromir, who raises an eyebrow at her over Aragorn, who has yet to stir.

' _What was_ that? _'_ He mouths, and she shrugs, offering him her most innocent smile.

' _I have no idea what you're talking about,'_ her expression replies smugly.

…

The ' _flet_ ' they're being offered turns out to be little more than a wooden platform built around the trunk of a tree. There's no railings and no staircase, but at a brisk command from Haldir a flimsy looking rope ladder thuds to the earth before them. Angela eyes it doubtfully.

"Uh… sir? Are you sure that will hold us? We're, um… not as light as elves-"

Gandalf waves her fears away with a chortle. "That is elvish rope, my dear. It would take more than the weight of our entire company combined to break it."

Gimli snorts rudely. " _Elvish_ _rope_ ," he grumbles. "We'd be better off with some good _dwarfish_ rope, I say, not this nonsense!"

Haldir's eye ticks warningly.

"I'm sure dwarfish rope is wonderful, Gimli," Angela placates soothingly, determined not to get kicked out because of the dwarf's silly grudge. "But Gandalf says this rope will hold us, and I trust him."

The stocky dwarf grumbles and gripes under his breath for a while longer, but Angela can see she's won. All of them are tired and in pain; there's no energy left in them to argue.

In short order, the whole company is settled on the innermost area of the _flet_ , out of the way of the handful of elven scouts that keep guard from the edges. There is the small issue of how to get Aragorn and Luka up, but eventually a makeshift stretcher is fashioned from two spears and a blanket strung together with ropes, and they are hauled onto the platform one at a time.

Angela hovers, nerves pulled taught as the stretcher swings dangerously, but she needn't have worried; the procedure goes without a hitch.

Gandalf, the last one left on the ground, appears at the top of the ladder and smiles at her with a knowing twinkle in his eye. Angela resists the urge to fidget guiltily.

"Haldir and his men will return tomorrow morning to lead us to Lothlorien," he announces, settling down in a spare space between packs and hobbits.

Sam perks up, nudging Frodo eagerly with an elbow. "Did you hear that, Master Frodo? We'll be back in proper civilisation tomorrow!" He sighs dreamily. "What wouldn't I give for a hot meal and a nice bath...?"

Angela smiles and reclines against the tree trunk. "Now there's a good idea," she agrees with some feeling. How long has it been since she's had an actual bath? A week? Splashing her face and arms in a river hardly counts. It could be worse; there's a lot she'll endure if she has to, for Luka and for herself, but she definitely won't turn down a bath if the elves are going to be offering.

Through the canopy, the foreign stars seem to glow with stunning brilliance; there are no city light to dim them here. She watches them for a while, until her vision begins to blur.

 _Has it really been a week? Two days to Moria, four through it, and then today – yes, seven days._ She blinks slowly, eyelids heavy. _Huh._ Well, with luck, it won't be much longer.

She closes her eyes just for a second, and when she opens them again, a pale sun rises. Then a dark haired elf kneels before her, blocking the light.

"Lady. Lady, you must awake."

"Huh?" She mumbles groggily, rolling out of her – well, Boromir's – cloak. "I mean, pardon? What is it?"

"Your friend has woken-"

"Oh!" Suddenly awake, she jumps to her feet. "Where is she? Is she okay?"

The elf hesitates, and Angela feels her stomach drop. _Something's wrong_.

"…Physically, yes," he answers finally, just as Angela is about to grab his shoulders and shake it out of him, "however there have been some… complications."

"Complications? What do you mean?"

He purses his lips. "I think it is best you see yourself." Turning on his heel, he leads her around to the far side of the _flet_ , where Luka and Aragorn are being tended to by the medic on duty. Luka is there now, sitting up. She is still pale, but her eyes are open and sharp.

"Luka!" Angela rushes to her friend and kneels, throwing her arms around her, only for Luka to tense and shove her roughly away. She blinks.

"Luka? What's wrong?"

There's a heartbeat of silence, and then-

"…Who de 'ell are yo'?"

 **N/A: Duh duh dunnnn! Cliff hanger! I know, I'm evil. Mwahahahaha! XD**

 **Love y'all,**

 **See ya next time.**


	8. Chapter 8: Retrospect

THOSE WITH COURAGE

 **A/N: Chapter 8! XD**

 **Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

 **Chapter 8: Retrospect**

 _The two combatants size each other up across the ring. Luka, dressed in spandex shorts and her signature blood-red singlet, bounces loosely on the balls of her feet, while her opponent prowls the far side of the cage hulking and grunting in a manner that's probably intended to be intimidating, but to her adrenaline-drunk mind, resembles a rather humorous memory of a disgruntled four-year old Émile with a blocked nose._

 _Outside the steel-mesh barrier, a mostly-sober regular commentates over the loudspeaker. "Gallawei looks ready to kill," he booms, leaning forward and grinning at Luka with unconcealed anticipation gleaming in his eyes; he's been here long enough to know how the fight is going to end._

" _Baudouin's none too shabby either. What do you think, boys? Lay your bets, 'cause the fight of the evenin' is goin' doooown!"_

 _The energy in the crowd balances on the edge of a knife, half-way between frenzied bloodlust and calculated scrutiny. Luka revels in it, loving the way the adrenaline thrums through her body to the pounding music and her senses sharpen to needle-sharp clarity._

 _The referee for the night steps forward, gesturing for the two fighters to move in. Close up, the height and weight difference between them is even more stark – Luka, all of sixteen years and toned but undeniably slim, stands almost two heads shorter and less than half the width of her opponent._

 _No matter. She's fought and won worse match ups than this. In fact, she'd be more worried if Gallawei was of similar physique to herself; smaller fighters tended to be more dangerous than muscle-bound brutes, in her experience._

 _And then the match is on._

 _Luka makes the first move – a lighting quick right hook which whips Gallawei's shaven head to the side but does little damage. That's not the objective._

 _The man turns back with a howl of rage, so far lost to the violence and bloodlust that have built in him for the last few rounds while he had pounded his opponents to bloody pulp that all sense of strategy and reason have deserted him._

 _Luka feels a little laugh slip from her throat._ Oh, this will be _fun!_

 _She darts in for another blow, a flickering hook kick behind Gallawei's knee that drops him to his knees. She doesn't try to capitulate on that; she'd watched his earlier fights. If she gets close enough to grab the fight is over, and so is her career._

 _Instead she dances backwards, almost skipping as laughter spills from her lips and Gallawei lunges to his feet, running straight for her like a raging bull – and well, she_ is _wearing red._

 _She backs up to the cage, reaches behind her and hooks her fingers in the links. Then, when her little bull is close enough, she draws up her legs – twists a little, muscles straining – and kicks him squarely, one boot to the face and the other to the throat._

 _The crowd roars its approval, and Gallawei stumbles back, blood streaming from his crushed nose. There's a pretty boot print on his face, Luka notices with fractured clarity as she slips back to centre-cage while her opponent is preoccupied, outlined in mud and alcohol and piss and whatever other shit she'd trooped through in the last week._

" _Good look,_ cher," _she taunts with a wicked grin, and he spins to face her again, expression contorted into something inhuman. "Want another one?"_

 _Even that hadn't been enough to teach him his lesson apparently, because he lunges again, meaty hands reaching. Luka rolls her eyes._

How predictable. Booooring!

 _Adrenaline spikes- she flickers forward, pushes Gallawei's left elbow up with her left hand underneath and spins, passing beneath his arm and behind him even as she drags him arm with him in a wrist lock and jerks it up further than arms are intended to bend._

 _One foot hooks around his ankle and knocks it out from under him, sending them both crashing to the floor. Luka shifts her weight as she falls, twisting so she lands on her side but free while Gallawei's weight crushes his twisted arm beneath him and tears the shoulder from its socket._

 _He howls, and Luka bares her teeth triumphantly- catches his other arm when it flails her way and hooks her arm around his neck and then around his arm in a dual arm bar and choke hold while her legs pin one of his at an awkward angle._

 _He thrashes, but her grip is absolute._

 _The fight is over._

 _The ref knows it too. He pulls them apart with some difficulty, shoves Gallawei at the medic and raises Luka's arm in victory._

" _And she's done it again, ladies and gents! Little Red takes her tenth consecutive win for the fortnight! EVERYBODY MAKE SOME NOOOOISEEE!"_

 _If Luka hadn't still been high on the thrill of the fight, she might have 'made some noise' about the ridiculous nickname they'd given her. It had been Little Red_ Wolf _originally, until people had gotten lazy and dropped the last part. Nevertheless, the moniker had stuck._

 _She exits the cage amid cheers and wolf whistles and makes a beeline for Jacque, the owner of_ The Blind Beggar. _Ol' Jacky, as he likes to be called, is an old bastard with notoriously sticky fingers and eyes in the back of his head, but he's one of the few mad enough to hire a sixteen year old slum rat with no official training to cage fight for him._

 _He greets her with a crooked grin, showing off his missing teeth. "Good show, Baudouin!" A hard clap to her shoulder digs into the bruises there from landing on her side, but Luka doesn't let her triumphant grin so much as flicker._

" _Yo' go' what's mine, boss?"_

 _Ol' Jacky cackles. "Yeah, yeah. Hold yer horses, kid. I got it." He ducks beneath the bar and emerges a few seconds later with a roll of notes clutched in his hand, which he carefully counts – twice – before sliding them to her. Luka grins, counts them once more for good measure (because this is_ Jacque _here) and gives him a two fingered salute of appreciation._ All there _._

" _T'anks,_ homme." _She stands and saunters off. "See ya roun'."_

" _Oi, Red!" He shouts after her. "You gonna be back tomorrow?"_

 _She stops, glancing back with a raised eyebrow. "Tomorrow's Monday." A statement and a question._

" _I'll have a fight for you if you turn up?" He offers, and she shrugs noncommittally._

"Ouais _, wha'e'er. I'll be dere-"_

…

Brown eyes snap open.

HAND.

HAND ON HER HAIR.

Luka is in motion before she has time to register more than too-bright light and the shape of someone outlined in shadow, wrist snapping up to clamp, vice-like, around the intruder's hand. They let out a quiet cry, of alarm, surprise and pain.

"Peace!" They whisper-shout, free hand raised and open in the universal symbol for 'please don't kill me'. "Peace, girl. You are safe here!"

Luka's eyes flicker around warily, taking in the wooden platform and the trees, and her grip tightens. "Where is _here_?" She bites out, free hand edging towards her boot sheathe.

Her fingers brush only leather. Her knife is gone.

"You are in the woods of Lothlorien," the man explains, eyeing his trapped hand with a grimace, "Realm of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn."

Luka's eyes widen briefly. _Lord? Lady? Merde-_

"Uh, look _cher,"_ she hedges awkwardly, dropping the man's wrist as if burnt. "If I'm trespassin' or somthin', I didn' mean ta. ' _ell_ , I don' even know 'ow I got here." She rubs the back of her neck, highly uncomfortable and more than a little unnerved. It isn't every day she wakes up in some rich bastard's backyard, after all. The dizzy blur behind her eyes isn't helping.

The man – she squints – a pale, delicate-looking youth with white-blond hair, smiles wanly. "You are not trespassing," he says cryptically. "Your companions brought you here while you were unconscious." He gestures to her head – which, now she thinks about it, feels a little like it's been bashed in with a brick, _repeatedly_.

"You are fortunate to have woken at all, I must say. Your head wound could easily have been fatal."

She blinks away the annoying spots dancing in the corner of her vision. "…uh. Righ'." She hadn't thought she'd done that badly against Gallawei. Had he even _hit_ her? Then her blurry mind catches on to what he'd said before that. "Wai' a minute! M'… companions?" She says blankly. "Wha' companions?"

Now it's the man's turn to blink. "You do not know them? The blonde girl called you her friend, so I assumed…"

 _Blonde girl? Do I know any blondes?_ Luka's head spins, and for some reason it feels like déjà vu.

"I ain't got no idea wha' yer're talkin' about, _cher_ ," she slurs, giving him the most unimpressed look she can muster to hide the turmoil roiling beneath. "…Anyway, t'anks fo' patchin' me up, bu'…but I, uh… should be… goin'. 'ny chance yo' could… poin' me t'… _Le Loup?_ S'on Hish'n street…" She attempts to stand, only to sway as nausea hits suddenly, causing her to double up and slip back to her knees.

" _Eugh…"_ She gasps, head dropping back of its own accord. "…De… 'ell?"

Surprisingly strong hands lower her back to the bedroll. "You should not move, at least for a while. Nausea, dizziness and vomiting are common symptoms of a concussion."

The world spins. "…C'n…cuss'n?"

"…This may be more serious than I had thought. Stay here, I will return in a moment. Do _not_ move!"

There's the sound of footsteps moving swiftly away, oddly magnified and echo-y. Luka lies without moving for a few moments, mind filled with a blur of frenzied thoughts as she slowly blinks the black from her vision. When a minute passes in silence, she risks sitting up again, this time _slowly_. Keeping one hand on the firm bark of the tree, she inches up and squirms until she can recline against it. There she rest, wrestling with her fractured consciousness until the man returns with a young woman in tow.

The woman – girl, really – sees her and visibly perks up. "Luka!" She cries, irritating Luka's sensitive ears. Then suddenly she flings herself down and seizes her in an enthusiastic hug. Small wounds all over Luka's body flare up, causing her to tense in an effort not to cry out. Instinctively, she shoves the girl away.

 _Fuckfuckfuck… hurts- ah…_

"Luka? What's wrong?" The girl asks, but Luka can hardly hear her over the roaring in her ears. It- _hurtshurtshurtswhat-how-what…_ _ **merde**_ _… happened to me?!_

With herculean effort, she manages to wrench her mind back from the edge- grits her teeth and forces the pain into the corner of her mind.

"…Who de 'ell are yo'?" She grinds out.

The girl – that _bloody_ girl – stares at her in incomprehension until realisation seems to dawn in her eyes.

"No," she whispers, hopeful expression shattering into denial and grief even as she shakes her head frantically. "No, no, _please no!_ This can't be happening-"

Luka's vision starts to blur again, but she manages to rasp a single word, "Wha'?"

The girl swallows. "…You don't remember me, do you?" she whispers. "You don't remember any of it."

 _Any of_ what?

Luka doesn't shake her head, can't – it hurts too much. But she seems to understand anyway.

"… _Oh my god_."

And just like that, the girl crumples. Her knees give out, her breath leaves her in a great gasp, and one hand comes up to claw at her chest, as if she wants to tear out her heart if only it will stop the pain.

Luka can only watch in silence.

She can't understand this grief, this attachment. Had they… known each other? Luka doesn't know her.

Nevertheless, she feels a tinge of guilt. This girl is crying for _her_ , hurting for _her_. She shouldn't be. It's not like Luka is dead.

Hesitantly, she reaches out with one shaking hand and touches the girl's shoulder. "…Hey."

Swollen hazel eyes jerk up, startled. Luka tries for a smile, and manages a tiny quirk at one corner of her mouth. "S'okay… don' cry."

The girl lets out a wet laugh that seems almost incredulous.

"I can't believe…" She doesn't finish, just shakes her head, not meeting Luka's eyes. "After everything-"

"Oh dear." An old man in a grey dressing gown-type robe halts at the edge of her vision, a solemn frown marring his expression. "I had not expected this, not at all. I am sorry."

"Can you- can you help her? Please, you're a _wizard_ \- I mean, no-one ever said, but I-"

"I'm afraid that is beyond my ken to heal, young one," he interrupts apologetically, but firmly. The girl's face falls.

"Oh."

"Never fear!" He pats her on the shoulder. "Her memories are not lost forever. They will return in time – when they are ready and not a minute sooner, I should say!"

"They will?" "Dey will?" Luka and the other girl say simultaneously, equally surprised and relieved.

"Yes indeed. Until then-" he smiles genially, "…I think it is an excellent time for some breakfast!"

He disappears, leaving both girls gaping after him.

"What-?"

"-De hell?" Luka finishes almost without thinking. The girls exchange startled looks, then Luka snorts. "Lemme guess. We were bes' friends."

" _Are_ ," she corrects stubbornly. "We _are_ best friends. No matter what."

"…Alrigh'," Luka says after a moment. "Wha's my bes' friend's name den?"

That causes something to flicker deep in those eyes. Grief, fear. Frustration maybe. Then it is replaced by resolve.

"Hi," she says with her first proper smile. "My name's Angela Webber. Nice to meet you."

Luka meets the proffered fist bump with a shit-eating grin.

"Yo Angela. I'm Luka, an' I t'ink dis 's de middle o' a beautiful frien'ship."

...

The others take the news of Luka's missing memories with various levels of stoicism.

The shortest one, introduced as Pippin, clings to her tearfully until she assures him that they're still friends, even though Luka has no idea who he is and she's slightly preoccupied by the discovery that not only do elves, dwarves and wizards actually _exist_ , she's almost a head taller than she had been last time she stood up. Now _that_ is weird.

She can handle the rest. Sure, it's a little odd, but there's something about being dosed up on pain medication that makes everything _so_ much easier to understand.

 _Physically_ standing, on the other hand, is disorienting. The floor is too far away, and so are her feet, and everything just feels _wrong_. Even with Angela's support, she almost trips over thin air multiple times just moving from one side of the tree house to the other.

The third time it happens, Luka lets out a childish noise of frustration. "Why'm I so taaall," she whines, pouting at her disobedient feet.

Angela snickers. "Whenever _I_ said that you used to say it was so you could use me as a head rest," she comments dryly.

"What, like this?" Luka drops her chin onto Angela's head, playfully mussing up her hair.

" _Hey!_ "

And that's that. Maybe once the drugs wear off she'll actually have to think about this, but right now, everything's just fine and dandy.

Now if she can just stay high forever…

 **A/N: So there you have it. Luka's lost her memories – how much, you'll just have to wait and see. There will be repercussions, and there will be tears… denial… hysterical laughter… madness and mayhem… and the most epic friendship of all time, of course! XD**

 **Love y'all.**

 **See ya.**


	9. Chapter 9: And In Dreams

THOSE WITH COURAGE

 **A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long guys, I underestimated how busy this last week of school would be. I've had so much on it's been crazy! And then last night I had my semi-formal, so preparing for that has taken up a fair bit of time too, sorry. And after** _ **that**_ **I had a taekwondo grading today! Phew! Anyway, enough excuses, it's here now! Hope you enjoy it. =)**

 **Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

 **Chapter 9: And In Dreams**

-Angela-

Beneath her composed façade, Angela is _panicking_.

Her best friend is _gone –_ and yeah, she's probably coming back, but she's still _gone –_ and if she hadn't felt alone before, she sure as hell does now!

Her one last link to her life before- before… all _this_ , is now a blank slate. Well, not entirely; Luka seems to be roughly the same as she remembers her. A little more trusting maybe, a little less, well… _angry_ at everything. It's… disconcerting, to say the least.

To someone looking in from the outside, Luka's reactions can seem… volatile, haphazard. But they're not, not really. Luka, for all her remarkable ability to improvise in combat situations, is rather predictable. She's gentle and teasing around Angela, fiercely joyful in a fight, and furious, teeth-gritted, take-me-on-I- _dare_ -you when scared.

That's the way it's always been.

Or rather, it _had been_.

It's not a physical thing, and the others don't appear to have noticed anything amiss, but Angela hasn't spent the last half a decade carefully nurturing Luka's mental state for nothing. She'd known from the moment Luka had looked at her with those gentle – if slightly confused – eyes that the girl she'd known was gone. It isn't an unusual reaction under normal circumstances, but by all rights Luka should be treating her like a stranger – and Luka isn't _nice_ to strangers!

Luka is different now, that much is obvious.

The question is, how much?

And more importantly, how much does she _remember?_

…

-Luka-

With each passing second, Luka is becoming more and more concerned.

Maybe the stress of raising her brother has finally sent her off the deep end. Or maybe Tommy Muller had been right, and she's been crazy all along. Either way, _something_ has to give!

Not because she's _feeling_ insane, but because she can't blink twice without yet another pair of pointed ears popping up in her vision! These elves, hobbits, dwarves – whatever they're called – are _everywhere!_

"Damn pointy-ears takin' over de world," she mumbles into her hands, scrubbing them over her face as if she can rub off this illusion and reveal something that makes sense.

She gets a dirty look from one of their 'escorts' to wherever it is they're going, and resolves to keep her mouth shut lest they decide to drop the comfy stretcher she's being carried on and force her to walk with the rest of the unfortunates. Although, she's not the only one getting special treatment; there's another dude (wrapped in so many bandages he kind of looks like a mummy) who hasn't made a single peep the whole time, if he's even awake.

…If he's alive. Well.

The others haven't explained, and Luka hasn't asked. She doesn't know him, and she doesn't (want) to care. So even if she's a little curious – because who wouldn't be? – she has bigger problems at the moment.

Like being _here_ , wherever that is. Some forest called 'Lothlorien', apparently. It doesn't look anything like the bayous **(1)** back home, that's for sure. Taller trees, less water, and (hopefully) no alligators. Although – she eyes the multitude of medieval-style weapons present in the company – this forest might not need alligators or giant snakes to be dangerous.

Seeking reassurance, she shifts minutely and brushes one thumb over the little knife she'd appropriated from the unconscious dude (it isn't like he'll need it). _Still there, good._

And then, completely contrary to her growing unease, a yawn forces its way out of her mouth.

She blinks, then reclines with a small, almost-grimace of a smile.

It's odd, how being away from home is so, well… _draining_. She hasn't even been away for more than a few hours – that she's been awake for, anyway – and already she's dreaming of her lumpy mattress and Émile's exasperating acts of rebellion like they're some kind of luxury.

 _Émile._

The thought makes something clench in her chest. Her brother is probably at home by now, curled up under that ratty blanket she'd rescued from a rubbish tip years ago. What will he think, she wonders, when he wakes up to find her missing? Will he worry?

He won't cry, that much she knows. He hasn't cried since Papa passed away. Émile is a slum rat through and through – tough as nails and twice as sharp. He'll be alright.

And besides, it won't be forever. She'll be home just as soon as she can figure out how she's gotten here in the first place.

Speaking of which, "Oi, _chérie_ ," she calls to the blonde woman, "how'd I end up 'ere, 'nyway? Yo' ne'er said."

Straight to the point; the only way to get anything done, in her experience.

Angela looks startled, as if she hadn't realised that Luka might not understand what the hell is going on.

"Oh, um," she stammers, before wincing. "…It's a long story?"

Luka gestures pointedly to her stretcher, and the quartet of 'elves' that carry it. "I ain't goin' anywhere _._ "

"Right. Of course. Uh-"

"The two of you arrived here through Lorien's Mirror," the old man – Gandalf – takes pity on her. "This phenomenon has occurred before, as I explained to you both once, however as you do not remember it I shall do so again. A young man named Brenma in southern Gondor travelled through a mirror and, in much the same manner as you, found himself in a far off land, where upon he came to the aid of one of the northern tribes in a time of great turmoil. He has since then returned to Pelagir where – to my knowledge – he yet lives, no worse for wear… and perhaps _wiser_ for his adventures."

He peers at Luka down the bridge of his nose. "It was my hope that it would be the same for you, though it seems that your path is not destined to be so peaceful."

She snorts, and pokes one of her bruises gingerly. "I can see that." She pointedly ignores the part about the magic mirror, because _geez_ , is it too much to ask for a real answer? Or at least a _believable_ lie? The barmy old codger obviously doesn't care if she knows he's lying, anyway.

But, more worryingly, little angel-face seems to be going along with it too. Luka can't tell if that's because she honestly believes it, or if she's part of the whole deception.

It's… not a nice thought.

Angela – if that's even her real name – _seems_ like a nice girl, and of all the crazies here she appears to be the most genuinely concerned for Luka. The others are all, _'oh, lady, let me help you up,'_ _'let me change your bandages,'_ _'let me carry you on a stretcher'_ – bloody hell, _no-one_ is that nice! Not unless they want something from her.

Well. That provides another option. Maybe she _isn't_ crazy. Maybe she's just been kidnapped by a bunch of renaissance/mythical creature cosplayers instead. _Because that makes so much more sense._ Even in her head it sounds like crap.

 _ **Why are you so sure it is a lie?**_

Luka jumps, as much as one is able while lying down.

 _Holy sh-_

Given the circumstances, and the fact that she's just recently been debating her own sanity, hearing voicing in her head is _probably_ a bad sign.

 _ **My apologies**_ , the voice continues, sounding almost contrite, but mostly amused. _**It was not my intention to startle you. I am Galadriel, and you, Luka, daughter of none, are welcome in my realm.**_

 _Galadriel?_ Luka parrots without thinking. _The 'lady' who owns this place?_

It's not projected in any manner, or any clearer than the rest of her jumbled thoughts, but somehow her mind latches on to the words, seems to magnify them and give them an echo that reverberates like the sound of a wooden ladle rapping on the side of a pot. Regardless, Luka is caught completely unaware when said thought is answered by _another_ thought in a 'mind-voice' that is _definitely_ not her own.

 _ **You have heard of me then.**_ And then, _**You have travelled far, dear child. Rest, for you are weary.**_

And like a tranquillizer straight to the heart, the heavy warmth of sleep closes over her.

…

 _The front door makes an unhappy squealing sound as it scrapes against the concrete floor. Luka makes a mental note to tighten the screws on the hinges; they must be slipping again._

"Me revoilà," _she calls, a note of barely restrained triumph in her voice._ _ **(I'm back)**_ "Et j'ai quelque chose pour toiii!" _ **(And I have something for yooou!)**_

 _Predictably, there is less than half a second's wait before Émile comes barrelling out of the back room and launches himself at her with a war cry._

 _She catches him with the ease of long practice and uses the momentum to swing him up onto the kitchen bench, the way she'd always done when he was younger and she hadn't been afraid she'd break him because he'd looked like a normal boy instead of half-way to becoming a skeleton wrapped in skin._

"Pas si vite," _she laughs, ruffling his unruly curls._ _ **(Not so fast)**_ _"One o' dese days I'll fall an' break my back, an' den where will we be?"_

 _An unspoken warning beneath the façade of a joke:_ Don't get complacent. _Luka's ability – and willingness – to fight is what keeps this family alive. She won't say it out loud, doesn't, at her core, want Émile to know just how close they've come in the past – how close to fading and withering away. But it's the truth, whether she likes it or not._

 _Émile grins cheekily, either not noticing or choosing not to react. "In a wheelchair!" He quips._

 _Luka snorts. Like they could afford a wheelchair. She can barely keep up with the bills as it is. The pay from working her nights at_ The Blind Beggar _is decent – a good deal more than any of her neighbours earn, but she's known since she'd been old enough to know the meaning of 'dream' that she doesn't want her brother to grow up knowing only the slums the way she has._

 _She'll have to start searching around for other pubs this week._

 _In the meantime, she's here to celebrate her success. Bruce Gallawei had been the last of a long succession of fights, and a satisfying end to the week, if nothing else._

"Ouais, ouais, rire deta soeur _."_ _ **(Yeah, yeah, laugh at your sister)**_ _She reaches into her backpack and draws out of long stick of bread, fresh and still warm from the bakery's oven. "I guess I'll jus' have t' eat dis all by myself…"_

"Non!" _Émile lunges for it, and they both go down, shrieking and giggling until they're gasping for breath. It feels so good, after two weeks of blood and fists and constant tension, to just let it all go. This-_ this _is why she loves Émile – he's not just her brother, he's her friend and her comforter, just as she is to him._

 _Suddenly, she becomes aware that Émile's gasping has turned to wheezing, tiny high-pitched whines that catch at the edges of his breath. She sits up quickly, cradling him in her lap._

"Ça va? As-tu besoin ta Ventolin?" _**(Are you okay? Do you need your Ventolin)**_

" _Ah… can' br…"_

 _His chest heaves, frantic breathing speeding up as his reply is lost somewhere in his throat. Heart in her mouth, Luka scrambles to her feet and lifts her brother into her arms, heedless of her aching muscles._

" _Sh-sh-sh, c'est d'accord. Don' worry, jus' breath, Émi. I go' yo'."_ _ **(It's okay)**_ _Rubbing his back, she sweeps into the back room and goes straight to the ramshackle desk on the far wall – an ingenious, if unappealing, construction of cheap wood and scrap metal with welded-spoon joints and a childish signature carved into one side, reading_ 'Émile Baudouin' _._

 _In top draw is what she's looking for: Émile's asthma inhaler and spacer. Quickly, she sets him down and assembles the parts before passing it to her brother, who appears considerably less panicked now that his medication is within arm's reach._

 _After a few puffs, his breathing begins to return to normal, and Luka allows her hands to stop shaking._

 _Émile, with the blasé of one accustomed to suffering, merely returns the inhaler to its draw and dashes back out to the kitchen._

" _Bags de big half!"_

 _Shaking her head at his antics, Luka follows. "One person breaks an' de other chooses, dat's 'ow it goes," she teases upon seeing him preparing to tear the bread stick in two._

" _Fine den! Yo' break it!"_

 _She takes it with grin, then passes it straight back without making any move to break it. "Told ya I 'ad somethin' fo' yo'. S'all yours,_ môme. _Knock yo'self ou'."_ _ **(brat)**_

 _Émile takes it with a wide-eyed expression._ "Tout… pour moi?" _**(All… for me?)**_

"Tout pour toi." _**(All for you.)**_ She ruffles his hair again, eyes fond. " _Don' eat it all a' once,_ d'accord? _You'll ge' sick."_ _**(okay?)**_

 _Émile, weary survivor of many a stomach ache – generally from hunger-pains, rather than indigestion, but still – nods fervently._ "Je'n vais pas!" _**(I won't!)**_

 _Luka doesn't bother adding further cautions. He will anyway._

...

This time, awareness comes slowly, caught in the webs of bone-deep exhaustion and the disarming impression of being absolutely _safe_. Luka stares at the distant canopy for almost an entire minute before reality sets in. When it does, she gives no indication of it aside from a small frown, unwilling to move again and risk a repeat of the nausea she'd felt before.

Soft fabric rustles and Angela crouches beside her, face twisted into a frown of contemplation and something fragile that Luka can't quite name. Then she smiles and it's gone.

"Hey."

"Hey," Luka echoes dully, not ready to start a conversation when the realisation that maybe this is _real_ is just starting to sink in. Not real as in saying that before had been a dream, but _real_ in that it looks like she really _has_ lost some memories, and maybe there's something more going on here than she's willing to admit.

"Are you feeling better?"

Luka makes a short noise in the back of her throat that could really be interpreted either way. Undeterred, Angela reaches out and brushes a few stray strands of hair out of her eyes, ignoring the way she tenses at the touch.

"I miss you," she says suddenly. "The other you, I mean," she clarifies, as if Luka doesn't know. "She- you – you're the strong one. You're the one who can fight, who's- who always knows what to do. I miss that."

Luka glances at her without moving her head. "I guess I must 'ave changed a lo' den, 'cause righ' now I 'aven't go' a fuckin' clue wha' t' do."

That earns a slight grin, wan and pale though it is. "It's up to me then, huh?" She leans back on her heels, a determined expression taking over her face. "Say, how do you feel about going home?"

...

 **Next time on TWC:**

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **A/N: So we're final (almost) up to the quote from the summary! Yay! And thank you so much for bearing with my sporadic updates! You guys are great.**

 **Bayous – an area of swamp just outside Louisiana.**

 **Review? Pretty please?**

 **Love y'all,**

 **Till next time!**


	10. Chapter 10: Clouded Reflections

THOSE WITH COURAGE

 **A/N: Chapter 10 is heeeeere! Sorry it took so long! Turns out that being on holidays doesn't actually make me more motivated, it just gives me more excuses to procrastinate. XD**

 **I hope you're all enjoying this so far, and if you're one of the people missing the balrog, don't worry, it'll be back soon enough. ;) So from… not this chapter, but very soon, TWC is going to really divert from canon – I'm serious, I have some totally epic things in store for you all. It's gonna be a blast writing it, and I hope you'll all love it as much as me!**

 **Thanks to everyone who's reviewed! It really inspires and motivates me to read your thoughts on the story, and even if you don't realize it a few of you have actually given me ideas that have changed the course of this entire story – definitely for the better! Special thanks goes to Zip001 once again for all your support! You're awesome. =)**

 **Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

 **A/N#2: Ahh yeah. So I didn't actually get up to the summary quote in this chapter. It… kinda just ran away on me. I'll get there… eventually. ^_^**

 **Chapter 10: Clouded Reflections**

-Angela-

Beautiful and terrible, she towers over them, bathed in ghostly white light. Her expression is one of benevolence – distant pride like a queen over her nation.

Galadriel is both everything and yet nothing like Angela had expected.

She looks like… like a _goddess._

Angela swallows, forces herself to breathe evenly as those piercing eyes linger on her.

She would like to think she's prepared for this, for this moment, but now it seems oddly anticlimactic. They've achieved their 'great things' – she's not dead and Luka had defeated a _troll_ – and now it's time to go home and live happily ever after. Luka will get her memory back, and everything will go back to the way it had been before.

This is it.

"The enemy knows you have entered here," the male elf at her side – who Angela is embarrassed to realise she had completely missed in the shadow of Galadriel's radiance – begins abruptly in that same, lilting accent of all the elves here. "What hope you had in secrecy is now gone."

Angela sees Luka glance at her from the corner of her eye, face quizzical. She can almost hear her amnesiac friend's bemusement. The elf – _Celeborn, that's his name, right?_ – continues steadily, "Eleven there were who entered this land, yet here stand ten, and it was _nine_ who set out from Rivendell. Tell me, where is your final companion?"

"Estel is injured and will not wake," Gandalf answers gravely. "He has been taken to the Halls of Healing for further treatment."

Celeborn nods. "Have no fear, he will recover," he says, and oddly enough it doesn't sound like an empty platitude – it's a statement of the truth, plain and simple. "Greetings, my old friend. It has been long since we last spoke, and there is much I have to tell you. But first, you seem to have grown in numbers. Who are your young companions, and from whence have they come? They are not of this land."

Surprised, her head jerks up. But before she can ask how he'd known _that_ little titbit of information, Galadriel speaks for the first time.

"Angela, daughter of Gabrielle… with the blessing of our Lord Irmo, you have been called far from your homeland." Then her eyes turn misty and her voice drops to a hoarse whisper.

" _By your left hand, the Black King will fall. By your right, a kingdom be saved."_

Silence.

"…It is as I feared," murmurs Gandalf, then refuses to say any more.

Angela trembles, but finds herself unable to look away- until suddenly, Galadriel blinks and the all-consuming _presence_ in the air dissipates with the breeze. She takes a deep gulp of air, only just noticing that she'd stopped breathing at all, and waits for the elven Lady to turn to Luka and spout similar words of prophecy (and she doesn't even want to _think_ about what this might mean, for them, for home, for _herself)._

But Galadriel's eyes pass over Luka without pause.

"Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dum fill your heart, Gimli, son of Gloin," she says instead, and Angela shoots a puzzled look at her friend, whose expression has fallen into its old neutrality. "For the world has grown full of peril... and in all lands… _love_ …. is now mingled with… _grief_."

As she utters the last word, her gaze turns on Boromir and sharpens unnaturally. After a few seconds under her heavy scrutiny, he begins to shake and a sound close to a sob tears itself from his throat. He fights to turn his head, seeming to struggle with his own body until-

"Stop it."

Galadriel rears back as if stung. Behind her, Boromir's breath leaves him in a great gasp of relief.

Luka's voice is brittle and dry, but sharp-edged like a knife. "Get outta 'is head, Lady. It ain't yours ta share."

 _Out of his 'head'?!_ Angela's mind shrieks, skidding to a halt. _As in, like,_ mind-reading? _Wait, but how_ Luka _know?_

Outside of her babbling consciousness, the whole Fellowship hangs on tenterhooks, waiting for the inevitable blow up – but it never comes.

"My… apologies," Galadriel murmurs after a moment. "I have over-stepped my bounds."

Angela can hardly believe her ears. Galadriel, immortal, beautiful, _powerful_ … is apologising to _Luka?_ Not that Luka is in any way _weak_ , she amends hurriedly. In fact most of the time Angela is completely in awe of her friend's natural ability to capture every eye in a room and _keep it_ – but this- she's just- she's _Luka._ Angela's cheeky, brash, crazy best friend. Not… not someone who tells magical elf queens what to do.

 _Not someone who walks around with blood staining her clothes. Not someone who looks at skeletons and recreates the battle like it's common sense. Not someone who snaps the neck of an attacker at an order. Not someone who fights trolls and_ wins.

But she is. She's done all those things, and apparently whatever strength she calls upon isn't reliant on her memories being intact. Maybe this _is_ Luka. Maybe it's just the way she is.

And isn't that humbling?

Finally, Gandalf breaks the silence. "The One Ring is sly and cunning," he observes. "It speaks to our minds and our hearts, even to those of us who would think ourselves immune."

 _The One Ring? What-?_

"Indeed." Galadriel seems to regain some of her earlier poise. "The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail… to the ruin of all." Her lips curve into a knowing smile. "Yet hope remains, while the company is true. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest, for you are weary with sorrow and much toil."

At her side, Luka twitches and purses her lips, and Angela wonders how much of the story she's missing here.

"Tonight, you will sleep in Lorien's embrace."

…

As the rest of the fellowship descends the stairs once more and Gandalf disappears to speak with Lord Celeborn, Angela hangs back. She won't lie to herself, Galadriel scares the heck out of her, but there is one very, _very_ important conversation that has yet to happen, and it looks like it's up to Angela to start it.

…Well, and Luka.

" _Maaairde!_ M' feet 're killin'!" Before Angela's incredulous eyes, her dark haired friend throws herself down on the short set of stairs between the two platforms and begins to remove her boots. "Oh, _beurk. Ça pue._ " **(Oh yuck. That stinks.)**

Angela wrinkles her nose a little. Over a week of walking all day long in the same sweaty, disgusting socks does not make for a particularly pleasant odour, that's for sure. It's a good thing her nose is mostly adjusted by now, or it would probably smell even worse-

 _Back on track, Webber! Get your head into gear!_

"Milady," she says firmly to Galadriel, fully intending to ignore the fact that her friend is a tactless idiot with no manners to speak of. "This world is beautiful-" and _dangerous_ "-but we really _must_ get home. There are people waiting for us there." _Well. Her boss, and her landlord, waiting for the rent._

Then Galadriel looks at her with pity in her eyes, and Angela's heart sinks. "I am sorry, young one. It was Lorien who brought you here, and Lorien alone can send you home."

Angela squeezes her eyes shut tightly, trying to push back the wetness welling up under her lashes. This is not what she wants to hear. She wants to go _home._

"I do not know for certain, but it is my belief that once the prophecy concerning you is complete, so will your time in Middle Earth be over."

"So it's true den." Luka speaks up from where she still sits on the step. "Wha' yo' said, abou' Ange 'ere takin' out some Black King dude – ain't dat prejudice 'nyway? – and savin' a kingdom or somethin'… dat was true? How d'we know yo' no' just spoutin' crap?"

Galadriel looks unfazed. "That was indeed Lorien's prophecy, and I have the means to prove it to you, should you wish it."

Luka face remains distinctly unimpressed. "Go on."

The Lady of Lothlorien smiles, and Angela shivers. "Come. I will show you."

…

-Luka-

Keeping one's sanity in a place like this, Luka has learnt, requires a great deal of patience and no small amount of willing suspension of belief.

As such, it is with a steady pulse and a carefully neutral expression that she follows the Lady Galadriel and Angela through the city. Because, there are a lot of things that don't add up here, and Luka considers herself to be open-minded, generally, so she is willing to wait until she has all pieces of the puzzle before passing judgement.

She doesn't bother concealing the undercurrent of scepticism that lingers in her thoughts, open for Galadriel to sense (assuming that her abilities extend to more than just communication). It's not in her nature to be anything less than true to herself, and Luka was brought up to be about as paranoid as they come. _No saints in the slums, as they say._

Luka had known from the first glance that Galadriel isn't nearly as squeaky-clean as she'd like to make herself out to be. Oh, she's certainly gone to a lot of effort to appear faultless, but it is exactly that unnatural perfection that tells Luka something's up. People only cover up when there's something to hide, after all.

She knows people like that, back home – had grown up with them. Girls in the streets, with their faces delicately made up, as if it can hide the bruises on their hips and their wrists from rough, indifferent hands. She isn't disgusted, doesn't pity them – understands perfectly well the kind of desperation that can drive a person to seek out the lowest dredges of society if only to survive another day. On the other hand though, she looks at those girl and sees people who have given up, and that's never been an acceptable outcome to her.

She doesn't think for a moment that what Galadriel's hiding is as obvious as this, but there is something there, and Luka has a feeling it will be revealed before long.

"Wha' I wanna know," she states evenly as they traverse a winding path deeper into the woods, "is if Ange's de… prophecy chil', or whate'er… den why de 'ell am _I_ 'ere?"

Angela looks startled, but Galadriel just nods as though expecting the question. Maybe she had been. Maybe she'd read it out right of her head…

"A curious enigma," she agrees. "One I hope is soon to be solved. We have arrived."

With (unnecessary, in Luka's opinion) grandeur, she sweeps aside a hanging fern frond to reveal a small clearing, complete with a bubbling spring, one particularly cliché ray of moonlight, and an empty bird bath.

"Tis no mere accessory, daughter of none," Galadriel corrects almost absentmindedly, reaching for a tall vase.

Luka scowls. "Stay out o' my head."

She stills for a fraction of a second, and the hair on the back Luka's neck stands on end. Then- "My apologies once again. Curiosity… is perhaps my greatest fault." She leaves it at that.

"Why're we 'ere?" Luka asks bluntly, long since tired of the secrecy. "Yo' claim to 'ave proof." She gestures to the clearing. "I do not see it."

Instead of answering, Galadriel kneels by the spring and fills the vase to the brim, before rising gracefully once more. She turns to them with a mysterious smile on her face.

"Will you look in the mirror?"

"A mirror," Luka says flatly. "How de fuck is dat gonna-?"

"No, wait," Angela interrupts, straightening. "Is- is it like Lorien's mirror? Magical, I mean? Hang on, does that mean we can get ho-"

"My answer has not changed," Galadriel cuts in with finality. "I cannot help you. No, this mirror serves another purpose."

"Which is?" Luka asks warily.

"A glimpse of possibilities… and memories. Will you look?" She repeats, eyes boring unblinkingly into her. The water splashes into the bowl.

 _Memories._ Luka won't deny it – the idea is incredibly tempting. She's only recently acknowledged that there _is_ indeed a gap in her memories; it hasn't really had time to sink in yet. But she knows it will. Can she afford to give up this chance, when somewhere in her memories might be a way to get home?

No. No, she can't.

"'s'it dangerous?" She asks, but she's already stepping up to the basin. It's an indelicate thing, silver and undecorated, appearing more like a mixing bowl than a magical basin.

"You do not seem the type to let danger hinder you."

"You know me well."

"Perhaps," Galadriel replies cryptically. "We shall see."

 _Well, that doesn't sound at all ominous._ Undaunted, Luka places her hands on the edge of the mirror's pedestal and leans in. The water is dark, dark as the night sky, though the spring, its source, is crystal clear.

A gust of unfelt breeze ripples its surface as an image forms within. Despite herself, Luka waits with baited breath as the ripples clear to reveal…

"Is dis some kinda joke?" She demands, pulling back to scowl at Galadriel. "Look, _femme_ , I love ta look a' m'self as much as de next _fille,_ but I fail t' see how dat proves anythin'." **(woman, girl)**

Galadriel takes a half step back, one hand going to her heart. "So it is true," she whispers. "I had suspected, when I spoke into your mind and saw nothing…"

Warily, Luka steps away from the mirror, keeping Galadriel in her line of sight. "Wha' d'you mean yo' saw nothin'?"

"I could not see you," the elven lady whispers hoarsely. "Your past, your future… they are clouded to me. Every soul in this land is as an open book… and yet I looked in yours and I saw _nothing."_

"So… _quoi_?" She says flippantly after a moment of poignant silence. "Am I gonna die den?"

"Your death would not cloud my sight. There must be another reason."

Luka shrugs. "I don' know it."

Galadriel stills. "Or perhaps," she says slowly, gaze flickering between the mirror and Luka, "you do know, and you simply do not remember it."

"That can't be!" Angela, who Luka has almost forgotten is present, protests. "I've been with her every moment since the start of this! When could she- when could this possibly have happened?"

Galadriel's eyes slide closed. "Oh, it's quite simple really," she murmurs. "The one place you, Angela, cannot follow Luka… her dreams."

 **A/N: Okaaay… so this story has gotten a little off track. You know, originally, Lorien bringing the girls to Arda was going to be a one-mention kinda thing. But then I got this idea… and it kinda snowballed… and now Lorien is kinda a HUUUGE plot point. Um.**

… **Oh well! I'm having fun writing it, and that's the main thing for me! XD**

 **Sorry again for taking so long with this chapter. I pinky promise I'll never take more than one week to update, and if I do you can throw rotten tomatoes and I'll happily play sitting duck.**

 **Thanks guys,**

 **See y'all next time! =)**


	11. Chapter 11: Bonds

**A/N: Gahhhh! Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I seriously JUST made that promise last update and then I went and broke it, uhhh…*Stands as target for rotten tomatoes- SPLAT… SPLAT…***

 **So, no, I'm not dead, I've just been in hell, also known as Middle-of-Nowhere-Ville WITHOUT INTERNET for a MONTH! Yes, I know, it was torture. I barely survived, and I can honestly say that without this story to work on and reread and fulfil my minimum fanfiction-per-day quota, I would've gone mad within the first week. But I'm back, and I have this (really, really, REALLY) overdue chapter for you!**

 **So, enjoy!**

 **Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

 **Chapter 11: Bonds**

"Well, it would make sense," Angela comments after a moment. "Lorien is the god of dreams, isn't he?"

Galadriel inclines her head silently.

"Wai', wai'."Luka's arms flail wildly as she squints and tries to wrap her head around the concept. "Lemme get dis straigh'. You think _Lorien_ 's been messin' wit' my 'ead- uh, soul… in my _dreams?_ How does dat even _work?_ "l

"Well if you think about it, it all makes sense!" Angela exclaimed, comprehension lighting up he features. "I mean, you don't remember meeting him, right? So, let's assume you it happened before you lost your memories, say, last week – in between falling through the mirror and the troll."

She starts pacing. "Then, of course, there's the question as to why you didn't tell _me_ -"

"Why would I tell yo' abou' some random dream?" Luka interrupts, crossing her arms. "Even if we were friends, I wouldn'-"

"You would have," Angela says with certainty. "We talked about Lorien with Gandalf, after we woke up the first t- wait, no. You were awake before that, weren't you? With the wolves…?"

Luka shrugs, having no memory of the time she's talking about.

"No… you wouldn't have- would you? But you were being really cagy about it when I asked what… maybe…"

"…You think I knew and kept it from you," Luka realises.

"I- yeah." The blonde girl bites her lip. "But… why would you do that? We w- _are_ best friends…"

Luka snorts. "Were. Let's face it, _chérie._ Yo're swee', an' I-" _mostly_ "-trust you, but yo' can' be _friends_ withou' knowin' shit about 'chother. It's one-sided a' best."

Angela shudders and takes a deep fortifying breath, face pinched. "I… know," she says eventually, forcing out the words as if they cause her physical pain. "I know you don't know me, I get it. But… I know _you_ , okay. I _do_. Whatever we are right now, we were best friends a day ago. _I know you_. If you knew something that could have gotten us home, you would've said so _. No matter what_."

"…So I didn't know anything, then," Luka concludes after a moment of uncomfortable muteness. This girl's faith in her is astounding, incomprehensible. Even _Luka_ doesn't trust herself that much. Leastways, not her future-present self. Future-Luka is an almost-stranger, and as such earns about the same amount of trust she'd grant to Ol' Jacky or Missy down at the bayous who sells illegally poached alligator meat or old dog to slum-goers, depending entirely on whether or not they can catch her swindling them.

Which is to say, she wouldn't turn her back on them for a second.

"Guess so." Angela deflates with a sigh. "Nevermind. It made more sense in my head."

"All will be revealed in time," Galadriel murmurs, and causing Luka to jerk and grimace.

" _Merde._ Ever though' about wearin' a bell, lady?"

The elven lady ignores her. Instead, she turns her silvery eyes on Angela, who flinches minutely.

"What of you, Child of Prophecy? Will you look in the mirror?"

"I- um…" Angela stutters nervously, former confidence vanishing once again under the prophetess' gaze. "May- may I have time to think about it? I don't-"

"You are scared," Galadriel observes, a gentle yet almost, Luka thinks, _mocking_ smile curling upwards at the edges of her mouth. "And you do well to be. Knowing the future can be as much as curse as a blessing."

She turns away, apparently dismissing them. "Go now. Your companions await."

…

-Angela-

The crunching of gravel underfoot sounds disproportionally loud in the absence of other noise.

 _Cr-unch…_

 _Cr-unch…_

 _Cr-unch…_

"Your memories _will_ come back, you know," Angela says out of the blue, disrupting the uneasy silence that had followed them from the clearing.

Luka glances at her but doesn't comment. The blonde girl sighs.

"Luka… look, I know you don't know me, and you probably don't trust me, but… I'm here for you, okay? I'll be here, for as long as it takes."

"Yeah?" She says lightly. "Thanks."

"No, I mean it. Seriously." Stopping, she turns to face the older woman and rests a hand on her shoulder. "Anything you need, or- or if you just want to talk… I'm here. We'll work this out together."

Luka halts too and stares at Angela with guarded eyes, until apparently she finds what she's looking for and her face softens. "Thanks, _chérie,_ " she says again, but this time Angela can tell it's sincere. "Sorry if I'm not- I, well. I'm not used to having… _friends._ " She winces, obviously aware of how that sounds. " _Je veux dire,_ it's usually just me an' m' brother, _donc…_ " **(I mean, so…)**

"No, no, I get it. I know how you were when we first met- actually, you were even _worse_ then, 'cause of- uh, I mean, so…" She trails off with a wry smile. "Okay, that didn't make much sense. Let's just I say I get it and leave it at that. I'm not good at this."

Luka snorts quietly. " _Ne tu sous-estimes pas_. You're plenty good from wha' I've seen." **(Don't underestimate yourself.)**

Angela smiles half-heartedly, humouring her. "What makes you think that?"

She shrugs. "I'm 'ere, talkin' to yo', aren' I?"

Angela has no reply to that.

…

They find the rest of the Fellowship gathered under and around a small tent at the base of one of the huge mallorn trees, minus Gandalf, who has yet to return from wherever he's disappeared to with Lord Celeborn, and Legolas, who has, according to an unusually quiet Pippin, gone to visit Aragorn in the Hall of Healing.

Angela, mind still reeling from the day's revelations, mumbles some excuse about having a headache and retreats to the far side of the trunk, where she curls up amongst the roots and attempts to get comfortable – not an easy task. Her back is still tender from that dangerous half-staircase where Luka had hauled her back to safety, just a day ago; a pattern of bruises have swollen up on the bumps of her spine.

Grimacing, she rolls on to her side, only to feel something digging in to her ribs. With a muttered French curse (gods, Luka must be rubbing off on her, after all these years) she lifts up on one arm and swipes at the earth beneath her to remove whatever stick or stone is lurking there, but the damp grass is soft and empty.

"What the…"

Sitting up, she untangles herself from her cloak and pats herself down, almost immediately finding the culprit tucked neatly into an inside pocket. More curious now than annoyed, she draws it out and-

Angela blinks. Then she lets out an incredulous laugh.

The little black book in her hand is familiar, very much so. The edges of each page are worn lovingly soft, and on the front page a brightly coloured sticker pronounces the book to be the _Property of Angela Webber, Year 12, Form 15._

Her art diary.

 _Of course!_ She'd almost forgotten – it seems like a lifetime ago now – the events that had led up to she and Luka falling through the mirror that day.

She flips to a page near the end of the book – the last page she'd drawn on, the half-finished portrait of her own face, reflected in the bedroom mirror. The same mirror that had gotten them into this whole mess. She can picture it in her head, the pale sandalwood with its straight, subtle grains, the simple line carved around the frame, the slight chip on the top right corner where she'd knocked it on the kitchen bench when moving in.

There's nothing remarkable about it, nothing to indicate that it would one day open up and swollen them whole. Nothing special.

A bit like herself, really.

Angela, despite being of above-average intelligence and born to a decently rich family, does not have an inflated sense of self-importance. She's always been more than content with her lot in life, and now is no different. Perhaps it is not the most pertinent question to be asking upon being told that she has some great and terrible destiny awaiting her, but what Angela wants to know most of all is _why?_

 _Why_ _ **me?**_

Why not someonemore capable, or prepared, or dedicated, or brave? Angela isn't _brave._ She's not a coward, certainly, but frankly at the moment the prospect of having to defeat this ominous-sounding 'Black King' is making her want to pull the blankets over her head and pretend none of this is happening.

She's not _special._

She's not _Luka._

She's just… Angela.

…

-Luka-

Gimli, for lack of a better description, snores like a thunderstorm in typhoon season.

He grumbles, he rumbles, he snorts – and with every deafening exhale, Luka expression grows more thunderous to match.

The forest rustles with the breeze.

An owl coos in the distance.

Gimli… _thunders._

Finally, Luka snaps.

" _Putain!"_ she hisses, rolling to her feet. Stalking over to Pippin, she grasps his shoulder and shakes him roughly awake.

"I didn' do it!" He yelps, eyes snapping open. "It was- huh? Luka?"

"De Hall of Healing. Which way?" She grinds out. "…Please," she adds when Pippin only gapes.

"Erm… that way." Pippin points without looking away, but at this point Luka could care less.

" _Merci."_ **(Thanks)**

" _De rien,"_ he replies promptly, and Luka raises an eyebrow. **(You're welcome)**

" _Vous parlez en français?"_ **(You speak French?)**

Pippin blinks owlishly. "Uh… what?"

She snorts. "Nevermin'."

Leaving the hobbit staring after her in bewilderment, she strides off in the direction indicated. If it's wrong, then so be it. She can do without headache medicine as long as she's away from that bloody _snoring._

As it turns out, Pippin had been right… sort of. By the time Luka wanders into the right hall – and seriously, where is the signage in this place? – the night sky is pitch black above the trees, and the city is alight with the glow of white lanterns.

She knows she's in the right place when she spies Legolas perched in the fork of the tree whose trunk forms the central pillar of the hall. He notices her at the same time she does, and gives her a curious look.

"Gimli's snorin' is atrocious," Luka says by way of explanation.

Legolas quirks a wan smile. "Say no more," he murmurs quietly, out of deference to the sleeping occupants of the room. "There are many spare beds. You are welcome to stay."

Once ensconced in bed though – one more comfortable than any she can remember staying in – Luka finds sleep will not come. Her body aches in ways that are both familiar and yet as irritating as ever, and the day's revelations lie heavy on her mind.

Should she even _go_ to sleep? What with Lorien apparently messing with her mind in her dreams? It's not as though she _wants_ the bastard in there, but she can only avoid sleep for so long, especially if she ever wants to heal from all these injuries she's suddenly sporting.

Eventually, exhaustion wins out.

…

 _Back alley off Herald Avenue, a scruffy, acne-ridden boy – no older than eighteen or nineteen – corners a little blonde girl against the wall, swaggering close with hands tucked in the front pockets of his jeans. Luka eyes them from the street corner, trying to decide whether she can wrangle payment out of the kid for running off her harasser. She doesn't have the looks of a slum-rat; face too filled out, clothes too clean. From the suburbs, probably. Might have some cash on her if Luka's lucky._

 _But before she make a move, the girl takes the situation into her own hands. Darting nimbly under the boy's arm – now that she thinks about it, that horsey face looks familiar… Georgie Broomfield's son? What's his name, Kenny? Jimmy? – Blondie nails him in the balls with a strong, if ungainly back kick._

 _Luka whistles appreciatively. "_ Merde _," she murmurs to herself. "Kid's go' guts."_

 _Unfortunately,_ guts _just aren't gonna cut it._

 _Jimmy – probably not his name, but she's going with it – recovers with impressive speed despite the agony he must be in, and grabs her around the middle and throws her to the ground. Blondie lets out a pained yelp as her shoulder meets the ground first, followed by the rest of her body weight driving it into the rough bitumen._

 _Luka decides it's time to step in._

" _Oi!" She calls, sauntering towards them. "What's up,_ enfoiré? _Got tired 'o beatin' up ya sisters, eh?"_

 _Jimmy swings around with a snarl. "Who de fuck-?"_

" _Or, wai', lemme guess." She tilts her head, batting her eyelids mockingly. "Ya lil sisters go' tired o' you' shit, an' now_ dey _beat de shit outta_ you _, instead. Tell me,_ Jimmy, _ya want kids, some day?" She looks him up and down, lingering on one particular area with a smirk. "I dunno. Ya migh' 'ave…_ issues _."_

 _Jimmy's face purples. "Baudouin," he spits, and_ ooh, she's famous, huh? Awesome. _"Fuck off, ya lil shit. An' you should keep you' nose the fuck outta my business if yo' know what's good for yo'."_

" _Oh?" Still smirking, she steps right into his personal space, loving how her recent growth spurt means he has to look up at her, even though he's at least two years older. Jimmy's a right weedy little shit, all bone and pockmarked skin. Only his mother could love him._

" _Why's dat?"_

 _His next words cause her smirk to drop instantly._

" _Who's dat kid who's always followin' ya round, Baudouain? Ya bro-"_

Crunch!

 _Face eerily blank, eyes like ice, Luka watches dispassionately as Jimmy lies on the ground clutching his ruined face, and inspects her knuckles for blood. His wild eyes meet hers, and she looks back, pointedly holding his gaze while she dusts hjer hand off on her jeans._

" _Go tell ya lil boy band, Jimmy," she says conversationally, "dat if yo', or_ anyone _touches my brother," she says conversationally, "next time, I'll break you'_ neck _."_

 _A sharp intake of breath draws her eyes back to the girl, who'd taken advantage of the distraction to scramble to her feet and is now staring at her with wide eyes, looking needlessly terrified. She's hardly in danger anymore._

 _Luka sighs, fighting the urge to rub her temple._

" _Go home, kid," she says tiredly. "Stay outta de slums an' you'll be fine. Jimmy-boy 'ere won' come after ya."_

 _The girl doesn't move. Her staring doesn't end, but some of the fear has left her eyes, replaced by something else Luka doesn't care to read. She rolls her eyes and starts to walk away._

" _I know you," the girl says suddenly, causing Luka to pause, but she doesn't look and doesn't turn back. "You're that girl from school who dropped out last year. Luka, right? Luka Baudouin?"_

 _Luka snorts. "'Dat girl who dropped ou',' huh? No' exac'ly how I hoped t' be remembered."_

 _She starts walking again, and the girl trails after her, curiosity overwhelming wariness and common sense._

" _Why did you? Drop out, I mean?"_

" _Bills t' be payed,_ chérie," _she shrugs, not sure why she's even bothering to explain. "Somethin' had t' give."_

" _Oh." That shuts her up, but not for long, much to Luka's exasperation._

" _I'm Angela," she announces, then trails off, looking pointedly at Luka._

 _She raises an eyebrow. "Good fo' yo'."_

 _Angela huffs. "You're supposed to say, 'Nice ta meet ya Angela. I'm Luka,'" she quoted in a terrible imitation of Luka's accent._

" _Why? Yo' already know m' name. An' I'm Cajun, not Australian, kid."_

" _It's polite!" She protests, hopping over a pile of scrap metal. "And stop calling me 'kid'! You're barely older than me."_

 _Despite herself, Luka laughs. "Wha'e'er yo' say… kid."_

" _Heeey!"_

 _Angela grumbles under her breath for a few minutes as they walk together in relative silence, Luka enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of comradery with the younger girl. She's a brat, and for too naïve for her own good, but she's got a spirit to her that Luka can appreciate._

 _Soon enough the sounds of the main street start to filter down to them, honking cars and the background hum of voices. Luka halts at the edge of the alley and folds her arms._

" _Here's you' stop, kiddo."_

 _Angela looks up. "Huh?"_

" _You' stop," she repeats. "We're outta de slums, you'll be safe 'ere. Yo' know de way 'ome?"_

" _Home?" She parrots, frown forming._

" _Yeah, 'ome. Ya know, de place yo' live in?" Sighing, she rolls her eyes. "Go on, 'fore yo'_ maman _an'_ papa _star' worryin'."_

" _Just my mum, actually," Angela corrects quietly, looking down. "Dad left when I was little. Dunno where he is. Don't care."_

 _Luka can empathise. While he lived, her father had been a raging alcoholic, his binges often drying up the bills meant to go towards food or basic necessities. She'd been guiltily relieved when the call from hospital came saying that she should come to claim the body._

 _She'd never known her mother. She'd known her_ Émile' _s mother for exactly five minutes, when she turned up at the door one night with a pile of paperwork under one arm and her infant son under the other like so much raw meat._

 _Papa had drunken himself into unconsciousness some hours earlier and the 'lady' had been 'busy' and 'couldn't stay', so Luka, all of six years old, had forged her father's signature on the adoption papers – whether or not they'd been legitimate, she still doesn't know to this day, but no-one's come to challenge them – carried her new baby brother inside and sang Papa's favourite drinking song to him until he fell asleep._

" _Do me a favour," she says, not looking at Angela. Instead, she stares out at the passing traffic. "When yo' get 'ome, give you'_ maman _a hug for me, tell 'er yo' love 'er. I ne'er tol' my papa, an' now 'e's gone." She unfolds her arms, and starts to walk back the way she'd come._

"… _Still 'aven't worked ou' if I regret dat."_

 _This time she makes it a few metres before Angela's voice calls her back._

" _Did you mean it?"_

 _She stops. "What?"_

" _What you said back there, to Jimmy? If he hurt your brother… would you really do that?"_

 _Luka stills, not saying anything for a few moments. "I don't know," she answers finally, truthfully. "Would you?"_

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed that little glimpse into how Luka and Angela met, because I certainly enjoyed writing it. For some reason it's always so much more fun writing scenes that are off canon-script. I think it's just the freedom of being able to write it anyway I want, without the constraints of the original dialogue and plot path. Anyway, hope you liked it. Let me know what you think.**

 **Review? Pretty pretty please? Even if it's just to throw tomatoes?**

 **Sorry again for the delay, love y'all,**

 **Amanda**


	12. Chapter 12: The Fear of Falling

**A/N: Chapter 12!**

 **WAIT! I HAVE AN IMPORTANT QUESTION!**

 **Okay, so I've been thinking, and I really want to know your opinion:** **should Aragorn and Luka be a pairing?** **See, when I first started planning this story, like, ages and** _ **ages**_ **ago, they** _ **were**_ **, but then I started writing and the friendship between Luka and Angela was kind of the main point and it never really happened. Not to mention, I actually don't mind Arwen, so I wouldn't be averse to sticking with the canon pairing. However,** _ **now**_ **I'm kind of at a cross-road with the story, and it would be possible to work in the beginning of a little romance** _ **with**_ **the plot I have planned for the next few chapters, in a manner that would be believable and properly respectful to the fact that Aragorn both clearly still loves Arwen and is set to become a King. Be warned though, it definitely wouldn't be a love-dovey fluffy relationship – one, because that shit's bad for your teeth, and two, because obviously neither of them are the sort to act like that. If it happened, I'm thinking their relationship would be more of a warriors-in-arms, easy comradery kind of thing.**

 **Or alternatively, it could be Boromir/Luka, seeing as those two will have a major part together soon. Would that be better? I don't really mind – both Boromir and Aragorn are my favourite LotR characters, along with Éomer, so it's really no hardship writing them.**

 **Or it could stay gen. Whichever way it goes, romance still won't be the main point of the story. That will always be the friendship between Luka and Angela. Rather, it will just be another exploration of the characters in this story like any other.**

 **Please review and tell me what you think. I would really like your input on this. =)**

 **Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French**

 **Summary:** _Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…_

"… _Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."_

 **Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(**

 **ALSO! Some lines from this were taken from the scene in The Fellowship of The Ring where Aragorn and Boromir talk about Gondor. Those obviously aren't mine.**

 **Chapter 12: The Fear of Falling**

" _Would you?"_

Luka stares at the ceiling, a lattice of woodwork and vines weaving overhead.

 _Huh._

Her memories are coming back, that much is obvious by now – and it seems like they only ever come when she sleeps. Dreams. _Whatever._ Luka doesn't know enough about amnesia to say whether or not that's normal, but she's willing to bet it's got something to do with Lorien.

She makes a face, not sure what to think of the whole concept. The _what_ and _how_ are easy – Lorien's apparently the bloody god of dreams, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. The _why_ though? Luka hasn't got a clue.

What does Lorien hope to achieve by blocking her from seeing her future? Is she gonna die? Will she never get home? Both possibilities make her feel a little ill, but Luka doesn't like to think that she might have changed so much in a few years that hiding that from her would be… _necessary_ for her to… do whatever she's here for.

Luka's not a coward; she could handle knowing her death was coming, if that's what this is about. Sure, it would suck, and knowing herself she'd probably refuse to believe it all the way to whatever afterlife or eternal oblivion exists after death, but she'd deal. If anything, knowing would only make her fight harder.

And not going home? Well, that'd hurt more than dying, definitely. She can't imagine any universe where she'd abandon Émile, not ever. Luka has no mother, no father, no real friends. Her brother is all she has.

But… he'd be okay without her. He'd be safe. There's almost 2000 pounds of emergency money hidden in the false draw of the desk – probably more by now, she realises, thinking of how much older Angela is now than in her memories.

It's been… years. Four or five years, even. _Anything_ could have happened in that time! Hell, by now she and Émile might be living in an actual _apartment_ , with her baby brother all grown up and set to graduate from high school. Luka might even have a proper job.

 _Merde,_ that's weird.

Shaking her head, she rolls out of bed and kicks on her boots, nonchalantly scraping the mud off on a corner of the bed frame before sauntering away with a silent two-finger salute to Legolas, who looks distinctly unimpressed.

These elves can do with a little dirt.

…

-Aragorn-

Aragorn wakes to a pounding in his head and the sound of Merry and Pippin arguing.

"-always been taller than you!"

"Pippin," Merry protests, " _everyone_ knows – _I'm_ the tall one, you're the _short_ one."

Pippin scoffs. " _Please,_ Merry," he says, affecting an air of haughtiness. "You're what, three-foot-six? At the most. Whereas me? I'm pushing three-seven!"

"Three-foot-s-!"

"That's enough, hobbits," Boromir's amused voice breaks through Merry's indignant squawk, and finally draws Aragorn out of the dazed space between sleep and wakefulness. "You will wake Aragorn."

"Aye," he rasps, blinking the blur from his sight. "For certain if you tried you could wake the dead."

There's a moment of shocked silence and then-

"Strider!" Two small forms collide with his side, causing him to wince, before they are pulled away by Boromir's firm hands on their collars.

"Careful! He is still healing." Their eyes meet over the hobbits' heads, and Aragorn is surprised but relieved to find that the usual resentment in Boromir's eyes is absent. Instead, he smiles, a mixture of fond exasperation for the hobbits and a strange sincerity. "I am glad to see you are well, my friend. Much has occurred in your absence."

His smile tightens slightly, and Aragorn sees in that moment a great turmoil broiling beneath. He sits up, alarmed. "What is it?"

Boromir opens his mouth to speak, but Pippin beats him to it.

"Luka's lost her memories!" He blurts.

Aragorn's eyes widen. "What?!"

"The head injury she obtained from the fight with the troll was more serious than we had thought," Boromir explains solemnly. "She fell unconscious shortly after we met with a party of border scouts at the edge of the woods, and when she awoke, it was though we were all strangers to her… even Lady Angela."

"…Valar," Aragorn breathes, running a hand over his face, and tries to hold in a groan. Everything _aches_ , his head even more so now. "And the others? How do they fair?"

"Tired, but in good spirits," Gandalf answers from the door, stepping into the hall. "It is good to see you are well, Aragorn, especially in the light of what I have to tell."

He hesitates, and Aragorn feels his heart sink. He just _knows_ it's going to be bad news.

"I am afraid I can no longer accompany the Fellowship to Mordor."

"What-?!"

"But Gandalf-!"

"Why-?"

The wizard sighs, looking weary, as he seems to be often as of late.

"Lord Celeborn has given me warning of a darkness rising in the south. Sauroman is amassing an army of massive proportions, with which he plans to destroy Rohan – down to every last man, woman and child."

"Orcs?" Aragorn manages, though he feels as though he has been dowsed in a bucket of ice water.

"Aye. And a new breed also – Urak-Hai, orcs bred for war. They are stronger, faster, smarter… and their numbers grow daily. This is why I must leave you." He gives Aragorn a look that tells him his mind is made up. "Though I am loath to abandon you when I have promised my guidance, neither can I abandon the people of Rohan."

"How do you plan to stop them?" Boromir asks frowning. "Forgive me, but you have fought Sauroman before, and lost. How can you be sure this time will be any different?"

"I cannot," Gandalf replies gravely. "I have the beginnings of a plan, and I will not be going alone. Celeborn has agreed to send two of his swiftest warriors with me. If my plan should fail and I am defeated and killed or imprisoned once more, my companions will retreat and bring word to Lothlorien and King Théoden of Rohan, giving time for reinforcements to arrive and civilians to be evacuated before the hordes are upon them."

The two men and two hobbits stare.

"You do not believe you will survive," Aragorn realises with horror. "You would go to your death?"

Gandalf closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again with resigned determination. "For a chance, however small, to save thousands of innocents?" He asks. " _Yes_. Do you understand? I must stop Sauroman – before it is too late."

"I… understand." The words grate at Aragorn's throat as he forces them out, an old dread rising as he begins to understand what this will mean for them, for _him_. "And… what of our company?"

"You have the map, and each other," Gandalf answers evenly. "That will be enough."

Aragorn looks at Merry and Pippin's pale faces and Boromir's deep frown, and doesn't say what they're all thinking. It will _have_ to be enough. They've no other choice now.

Without Gandalf, Aragorn knows, the Fellowship will look to him for leadership. The problem is, Aragorn isn't sure he's ready for that kind of burden. He remembers Elrond's words damning words from the council in Rivendell, and the sick feeling in his chest grows stronger.

 _You will unite or you will fall._

What happens if they… fall?

…

Gandalf sweeps out and Merry and Pippin trail after him, leaving Aragorn and Boromir alone in the silence.

Aragorn, immersed in his thoughts, doesn't react until Boromir speaks, voice shaken, and he realises that this is the true cause of the rush of emotion in the Gondorian man's eyes, earlier. He waits silently for the other man to speak.

"...When we were taken before the Lord and Lady… I heard her voice inside my head." He lifts his face to Aragorn's. "She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She said to me, 'Even now, there is hope left.'" His gaze drops again, as do is shoulders. "…But I cannot see it," he admits shamefully, but something draws his eyes up once again. "It is long since we had any hope."

And suddenly, Aragorn realises what Boromir is speaking of. Not that there is no hope in Lord Denethor – though that too, seems apparent – but that there is no hope for Gondor… the Kingdom without a King. Not for the first time, Aragorn resents his heritage, both his lineage, and the name bestowed upon him as a child.

 _Estel._ Hope.

A hope for the people, his adoptive father had called him. For Aragorn, the only meaning it has ever held is in the weight of the people's hopes in him.

It seems ironic that he is here, bedridden and weak, as Boromir looks to him to be King. To be strong.

"My father is a noble man," Boromir swears – though Aragorn has met Lord Denethor and begs to differ – "but his throne is failing… our people lose faith." The words seem to physically hurt him.

"He looks to me to make things right, and I- I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored."

He glances quickly at Aragorn and then away again with a huff, as though he cannot believe he's telling him this. But he continues.

"Have you ever seen it, Aragorn?" He asks, pride and longing and desperation in his voice. "The white tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze…"

Despite himself, Aragorn lets his eyes fall closed, and allows himself to, just for a moment, imagine the scene as Boromir describes it.

 _Sunlight reflects off the helms of the guards by the gates. The sun is warm on his face, the sound of his horse's hooves on the drawbridge mixing with the chatter and hum of vibrant life behind those high stone walls. Above, the blue and white flags of Gondor unfurl towards the sky._

"Have you ever been called home, by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?"

 _Home? No, no he hasn't._

He opens his eyes to twilight, and his heart aches.

It would be so easy, he thinks, to give in to fear and anger, to brush off the desperation in Boromir's eyes. The Ring must not pass through Gondor, this much Aragorn is sure of – and he would tell his companion so if he were not sure that Boromir would take it as a slight against the city he loves so much. It isn't – he knows that there are good men in Gondor, men like Boromir. But the temptation of the Ring is strong; Aragorn has not the words to explain the horror he feels at the thought of his people falling – not to the sword of the enemy, but – from within, betrayed by their own King.

Here he stands on fragile ground.

He _must_ find a way.

Unbidden, his mind returns to the depths of Moria, the split second of overwhelming, unconditional _desperation-hope-faith_ he'd felt when he stood behind Luka and lent her his strength, however little of it there was.

They had brought the troll to its knees.

 _Is this what the people of Gondor see in me?_ he wonders. _When they hope?_

"I dare not endanger our people by the weakness in my blood," he reveals quietly. "That is why I will not take the ring to Gondor."

Boromir makes a small sound in the back of his throat, equal parts confused and startled.

"You feel it too," he says. It's not a question.

Aragorn nods, meeting the other's eyes properly for the first.

"Aye. If… if I were to go to Gondor," he struggles to explain, "…if I _saw_ our people in their need, I… I do not think I could-"

"I know," Boromir interrupts, and Aragorn is grateful that he did not have to say it out loud. "I… had thought I was alone. That I alone was weak…"

"We are not weak," Aragorn corrects gruffly, but firmly. "We are _human_. And we are still fighting, are we not?"

Boromir breaks into a relieved smile. "Aye, brother. And we will _keep_ fighting!"

Aragorn feels a weight lifted from his chest. 'Tis their shared burden, shared weakness. Their shared strength.

They are not alone.

 **A/N: Bit shorter than usual, but I'm already late on the update as it is. Whoops… ;) Hope you enjoyed this chapter, even though it's most from Aragorn's perspective. I really loved that scene in the extended version of the movie, so I wanted to try to deconstruct it from Aragorn's point of view, taking into account his obvious reluctance to become king and (hopefully) explaining why he was so adamant about keeping the Ring well away from Gondor.**

 **Let me know what you think, and also don't forget to give your opinion on the pairing options mentioned at the top. =)**

 **Love y'all,**

 **See ya.**


	13. AUTHOR NOTICE

[EDIT] 06/02/16

I'm very sorry to tell you that Those With Courage will be ON HIATUS for at least the next few weeks. School is back in swing, and Year 12 is absolutely terrifying. Frankly, I don't have a spare second to work on fanfiction at the moment, and on top of that, I'm, well... _stuck_. At the point in the story that I've reached I find that there are a number of different ways it could go, and I've yet to decide which direction I want to take it in. So until I get my life and these pesky plot bunnies back under control, I'm going to have to take a bit of a break. That said, I have every intention of returning to TWC soon, say in a month or so - so don't worry, it won't be forever!

Thank you again for all your support - you seriously have no idea how much your views and reviews/favs/follows mean to me. You're all absolutely amazing, and I'll do my best to get my head screwed back on right and be back to updating soon. =)

Love y'all,

See ya (for now)!

[EDIT] 19/04/16

Okay, so obviously it's been a bit more than a month. Still stuck. =(

[EDIT] 23/04/16

This story is DISCONTINUED. Sorry guys.


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